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MOTHERWELVS 
POSTHUMOUS    POEMS. 


THE  American  Publishers  have  issued  this  volume  in  uni- 
form style  with  their  other  editions  of  the  Writings  of  Mother- 
well,  in  order  that  the  series  might  be  complete.  The  volumes 
already  published  comprise  the  Poetical  Works  with  the  Memoir, 
and  the  Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and  Modern. 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 


OF 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL 


NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LI. 


THt'RJTOX,  TORKT,  AXD  EMERSOS,  P1UXTKB3. 


5  \» 

* 


PREFACE  TO  THE   GLASGOW  EDITION. 

WHEN  the  Second  Edition  of  Motherwell's  Poems  was 
published,  in  1847,  it  was  stated  in  the  Preface  that  the 
fragments  of  poetry  which  he  had  left  behind  him  in  manu- 
script, and  which  were  not  included  in  that  volume,  might  be 
given  to  the  public  at  some  future  day,  should  any  encour- 
agement be  offered  for  pursuing  such  a  course.  This  the 
Publisher  has  now  determined  to  do  ;  but  before  taking  such 
a  step,  he  resolved  to  submit  the  pieces  in  question  to  the 
critical  scrutiny  of  Motherwell's  old  friend  and  poetical  ally, 
Mr.  William  Kennedy,  who  chanced  to  be  in  Scotland  at 
the  time.  The  reader  will,  therefore,  be  good  enough  to 
understand  that  these  Poems  have  been  selected  by  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy, and  are  published  under  his  express  authority.  The 
Publisher  is  gratified  in  being  able  to  make  this  statement, 
as  it  relieves  him  from  a  responsibility  which  he  feels  that  it 
would  not  be  becoming  in  him  to  incur. 


759439 


LINES 

Written  after  a  Visit  to  the  Grave  of  mj  Friend, 
WILLIAM   MOTHEKWELL, 

'     NOVMCBKH,  1847. 

PLACE  we  a  stone  at  his  head  and  his  feet ; 
Sprinkle  his  sward  with  the  small  flowers  sweet ; 
Piously  hallow  the  Poet's  retreat ! 

Ever  approvingly, 

Ever  most  lovingly, 
Turned  he  to  Nature,  a  worshipper  meet. 

Harm  not  the  thorn  which  grows  at  his  head  ; 
Odorous  honors  its  blossoms  will  shed, 
Grateful  to  him,  early  summoned,  who  sped 

Hence,  not  unwillingly  — 

For  he  felt  thrillingly  — 
To  rest  his  poor  heart  'mong  the  low-lying  dead. 

Dearer  to  him  than  the  deep  Minster  bell, 
Winds  of  sad  cadence,  at  midnight,  will  swell, 
Vocal  with  sorrows  he  knoweth  too  well, 

Who,  for  the  early  day, 

Plaining  this  roundelay, 
Might  his  own  fate  from  a  brother's  foretell. 


8 


Worldly  ones  treading  this  terrace  of  graves, 

Grudge  not  the  minstrel  the  little  he  craves, 

When  o'er  the  snow-mound  the  winter-blast  raves  — 

Tears  —  which  devotedly, 

Though  all  unnotedly, 
Flow  from  their  spring,  in  the  soul's  silent  caves. 

Dreamers  of  noble  thoughts,  raise  him  a  shrine, 
Graced  with  the  beauty  which  lives  in  his  line ; 
Strew  with  pale  flow'rets,  when  pensive  moons  shine, 

His  grassy  covering, 

Where  spirits  hovering, 
Chaunt,  for  his  requiem,  music  divine. 

Not  as  a  record  he  lacketh  a  stone  ! 

Pay  a  light  debt  to  the  singer  we've  known  — 

Proof  that  our  love  for  his  name  hath  not  flown 

With  the  frame  perishing  — 

That  we  are  cherishing 
Feelings  akin  to  the  lost  Poet's  own. 

WILLIAM  KENNEDY. 


CONTENTS. 


0  THAT  THIS  WEARY  WAR  OF  LIFE            .            .  .17 

CHOICE  OF  DEATH          .....  19 

/  LIKE  MIST  ON  A  MOUNTAIN-TOP,  BROKEN  AND  GRAY  .      20 

SONS     .......  22 

TRUE  WOMAN          .            .            .            .            .  .24 

FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE   .....  26 

AND  HAE  YE  SEEN  MY  AIN  TRUE  LUVE       .            .  .28 

THE  SPELL-BOUND  KNIGHT         ....  30 

CRUXTOUN  CASTLE  .            .            .            .            .  .32 

ROLAND  AND  ROSABELLE            ....  40 

SONG  .......      43 

FOR  BLITHER  FIELDS  AND  FAIRER  BOWERS        .            .  44 

HOPE  AND  LOVE       .            .            .            .            .  .46 

SONGE  OF  THE  ScHIPPE  .....  48 

HE  STOOD  ALONE      .            .            .            .            .  .51 

CUPID'S  BANISHMENTS    .....  52 

THE  SHIP  OF  THE  DESERT     .            .            .            .  .54 

THE  POET'S  WISH         .....  56 

ISABELLE      .            .            .            .            .            .  .57 

WHAT  is  THIS  WORLD  TO  ME  ?             ...  59 

To  A  LADY'S  BONNET           .            .            .            .  .60 

THE  WANDERER            .....  62 

SONG  .......      65 

THE  HUNTER'S  WELL               .                       .  67 


10  CONTENTS. 

I 

.  IT  DEEPLY  WOUNDS  THE  TRUSTING  HEART  .            .  .69 

THE  ETTIN  O'SILLARWOOD        ....  71 

LIKE  A  GRAY-HAIRED  MARINER       .            .            .  .80 

THE  LAY  OF  GEOFFROI  RUDEL  ....  81 

ENTIE          .......      82 

LOVE'S  TOKENS  .....  84 

/  0  SAY  EOT  PURE  AFFECTIONS  CHANGE         .            .  .86 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  FAIR  LILYE            ...  87 

YOUNG  LOVE            .            .            .            .            .  .90 

To  THE  TEMPEST           .....  92 

GOE  CLEED  wi'  SMYLIS  THE  CHEEK  .            .            .  .94 

THE  POET'S  DESTINY     .            .            .            .             .  97 

I  MET  Wl'  HER  I  LUVED  YESTREEN  .             .            .  .98 

To  THE  LADY  OF  MY  HEART      ....  100 

THE  FAIKE  LADYE  .            .            .            .            .  .101 

MY  Am  COUNTRIE         .            .            .            .            .  103 

To  A  FRIEND  AT  PARTING    .            .            .            .  .     105 

I  PLUCKED  THE  BERRY  .....  109 

SONG  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  110 

To  *  *  *  * 112 

THE  KNIGHT'S  REQUIEM  .  .  .  .  .114 

THE  ROCKY  ISLET  .  .  .  .  .  117 

THE  PAST  AND  THE  FUTURE  .  .  .  .118 

0,  TURN  FROM  ME  THOSE  RADIANT    EYES                 .                  .  120 

0  THINK  NAE  MORE  o'  ME,  SWEET  MAY      .            .  .     121 

THE  LOVE-LORN  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DAMSEL  PITILESS        .  123 
LOVE  IN  WORLDLYNESSE       .....     125 

A  NIGHT  VISION            .....  128 

THIS  is  NO  SOLITUDE  .....     136 

THE  LONE  THORN          .            .            .            .            .  137 

THE  SLAYNE  MENSTREL       .....     138 

THE  MERMAIDEN            .....  142 

SONG            .            .            .            .            .            .  .144 

THE  LEAN  LOVER           .....  146 

AFFECTEST  THOU  THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  SHADE  ?   .  .     1 48 

Music    .            .  149 


CONTENTS.  1 1 

THE  SHIPWRECKED  LOVER    .....  151 

HOLLO,  MY  FANCY          .....  154 

LOVE'S  POTENCIE      ......  167 

LIFE       .......  169 

SUPERSTITION           ......  170 

YE  VERNAL  HOURS        .....  174 

COME,  THOU  BRIGHT  SPIRIT               .            .                         .  175 

LAYS  OF  THE  LANG  BEIN  HITTERS         .            .            .  178 

THE  RlTTERS  RIDE  FORTH             ....  178 

LAY  OF  THE  BROKEN-HEARTED  AND  HOPE-BEREAVED  MEW  180 

DREAM  OF  LIFE'S  EARLY  DAY,  FAREWELL  FOR  EVER        .  182 

THE  HITTERS  RIDE  HOME        ....  185 


POEMS. 


POSTHUMOUS    POEMS. 


0  THAT  THIS  WEARY  WAR  OF  LIFE 

0  THAT  this  weary  war  of  life 

With  me  were  o'er, 
Its  eager  cry  of  wo  and  strife 

Heard  never  more ! 
I've  fronted  the  red  battle  field  - 

Mine  own  dark  day  ; 

1  fain  would  fling  the  helmet,  shield, 

And  sword  away. 
I  strive  not  now  for  victory  — 

That  wish  hath  fled  ; 
My  prayer  is  now  to  numbered  be 

Among  the  dead  — 
All  that  I  loved,  alas  !  —  alas  ! 

Hath  perished ! 


18 


They  tell  me  'tis  a  glorious  thing, 

This  wearing  war ; 
They  tell  me  joy  crowns  suffering 

And  bosom  scar. 
Such  speech  might  never  pass  the  lips 

That  could  unfold 
How  shrinketh  heart  when  sorrow  nips 

Affections  old : 
When  they  who  cleaved  to  us  are  dust, 

Why  live  to  moan  ? 
Better  to  meet  a  felon  thrust 

Than  strive  alone  — 
Better  than  loveless  palaces 

The  churchyard  stone ! 


CHOICE  OF  DEATH. 

MIGHT  I,  without  offending,  choose 
The  death  that  I  would  die, 

I'd  fall,  as  erst  the  Templar  fell, 
Aneath  a  Syrian  sky. 

Upon  a  glorious  plain  of  war, 

The  banners  floating  fair, 
My  lance  and  fluttering  pennoncel 

Should  marshal  heroes  there  ! 

Upon  the  solemn  battle-eve, 
With  prayer  to  be  forgiven, 

I'd  arm  me  for  a  righteous  fight, 
Imploring  peace  of  Heaven  ! 

High  o'er  the  thunders  of  the  charge 
Should  wave  my  sable  plume, 

And  where  the  day  was  lost  or  won, 
There  should  they  place  my  tomb  ! 


LIKE   MIST   ON   A   MOUNTAIN   TOP 
BROKEN  AND   GRAY. 


LIKE  mist  on  a  mountain  top  broken  and  gray, 
The  dream  of  my  early  day  fleeted  away  : 
Now  the  evening  of  life,  with  its  shadows,  steals  on, 
And  memory  reposes  on  years  that  are  gone  ! 

Wild  youth  with  strange  fruitage  of  errors  and  tears  — 
A  midday  of  bliss  and  a  midnight  of  fears  — 
Though  chequer'd,  and  sad,  and  mistaken  you've  been, 
Still  love  I  to  muse  on  the  hours  we  have  seen ! 

With  those  long-vanished  hours  fair  visions  are  flown, 
And  the  soul  of  the  minstrel  sinks  pensive  and  lone ; 
In  vain  would  I  ask  of  the  future  to  bring 
The  verdure  that  gladden'd  my  life  in  its  spring ! 


21 


I  think  of  the  glen  where  the  hazle-nut  grew  — 
The  pine-covered  hill  where  the  heather-bell  blew  — 
The  trout -burn  which   soothed   with    its   murmuring 

sweet, 

The  wild  flowers  that  gleamed  on  the   red  deer's  re- 
treat ! 

I  look  for  the  mates  full  of  ardour  and  truth, 

Whose  joys,  like   my  own,  were   the    sunbeams  of 

youth  — 

They  passed  ere  the  morning  of  hope  knew  its  close — 
They  left  me  to  sleep  where  our  fathers  repose  ! 

Where  is  now  the  wide  hearth  with  the  big  faggot's 

blaze, 

Where  circled  the  legend  and  song  of  old  day?  ? 
The  legend's  forgotten,  the  hearth  is  grown  cold, 
The  home  of  my  childhood  to  strangers  is  sold ! 

Like  a  pilgrim  who  speeds  on  a  perilous  way, 

I  pause,  ere  I  part,  oft  again  to  survey 

Those  scenes  ever  dear  to  the  friends  I  deplore, 

Whose  feast  of  young  smiles  I  may  never  share  more  ! 


SONG. 

IF  to  thy  heart  I  were  as  near 

As  thou  art  near  to  mine, 
I'd  hardly  care  though  a'  the  year 
Nae  sun  on  earth  suld  shine,  my  dear, 

Nae  sun  on  earth  suld  shine  ! 

Twin  starnies  are  thy  glancin'  een  — 

A  warld  they'd  licht  and  mair  — 
And  gin  that  ye  be  my  Christine, 
Ae  blink  to  me  ye '11  spare,  my  dear, 
Ae  blink  to  me  ye  '11  spare  ! 

My  leesome  May  I've  wooed  too  lang 

Aneath  the  trystin'  tree, 
I've  sung  till  a'  the  plantins  rang, 
Wi'  lays  o'  love  for  thee,  my  dear, 

Wi'  lays  o'  love  for  thee. 


23 


The  dew-draps  glisten  on  the  green, 

The  laverocks  lilt  on  high, 
We  '11  forth  and  doun  the  loan,  Christine, 
And  kiss  when  nane  is  nigh,  my  dear, 

And  kiss  when  nane  is  nigh  ! 


TRUE  WOMAN. 

No  quaint  conceit  of  speech, 
No  golden,  minted  phrase  — 

Dame  Nature  needs  to  teach 
To  echo  Woman's  praise  ; 

Pure  love  and  truth  unite 

To  do  thee,  Woman,  right ! 

She  is  the  faithful  mirror 

Of  thoughts  that  brightest  be  — ^ 
Of  feelings  without  error, 

Of  matchless  constancie  ; 
When  art  essays  to  render 

More  glorious  Heaven's  bow  — 
To  paint  the  virgin  splendour 

Of  fresh-fallen  mountain  snow  — 
New  fancies  will  I  find, 
To  laud  true  Woman's  mind. 


25 

No  words  can  lovelier  make 

Virtue's  all-lovely  name, 
No  change  can  ever  shake 

A  woman's  virtuous  fame  : 
The  moon  is  forth  anew, 

Though  envious  clouds  endeavour 
To  screen  her  from  our  view  — 

More  beautiful  than  ever  : 
So,  through  detraction's  haze, 
True  Woman  shines  alwaies. 

The  many -tinted  rose, 
Of  gardens  is  the  queen, 

The  perfumed  Violet  knows 
No  peer  where  she  is  seen 

The  flower  of  woman-kind 

Is  aye  a  gentle  mind. 


FRIENDSHIP  AND   LOVE. 

OFT  have  I  sighed  for  pleasure  past, 

Oft  wept  for  secret  smarting  — 
But  far  the  heaviest  drop  of  all 
That  ever  on  my  cheek  did  fall 
The  tear  was  at  our  parting. 

Why  did  our  bosoms  ever  beat 
Harmonious  with  each  other, 
If  truest  sympathies  of  soul 
Might  broken  be,  perhaps  the  whole 
Concentred  in  another  ? 

My  fear  it  was  when  other  scenes, 
With  other  tongues,  and  faces, 

Should  greet  thee,  thou  would'st  haply  be 

Forgetful  of  our  amity 
In  old  frequented  places. 


27 


'Tis  even  so  —  the  thrall  of  love, 

Past  ties  to  thee  seem  common  — 
Well,  hearts  must  yield  to  beauty  rare, 
And  proud-souled  friendship  hardly  dare 
Contest  the  prize  with  woman  ! 

Old  friend,'  adieu  !    I  blame  thee  not, 
Since  fair  guest  fills  thy  bosom  — 
Thy  smiling  love  may  flattered  be 
Our  bonds  to  know,  and  feel  that  she 
Thy  pow'r  had  to  unloose  them  ! 

Since  thou  surrenderest  all  for  her, 

May  she,  with  faith  unshaken, 
Place  every  thought  on  thee  alone, 
While  he  who  Friendship's  dream  hath  known, 

Must  from  that  dream  awaken  ! 


AND  HAE  YE  SEEN  MY  AIN  TRUE  LUVE' 

'  AND  hae  ye  seen  my  ain  true  luve 

As  ye  cam  thro'  the  fair? 
Ae  blink  o'  her's  worth  a'  the  goud 
And  gear  that  glistens  there  ! '  — 
'  And  how  suld  I  ken  your  true  luve 

Frae  ither  lasses  braw 
That  trysted  there,  busked  out  like  queens, 
Wi'  pearlins  knots  and  a'  ? ' 

'  Ye  may  ken  her  by  her  snaw-white  skin, 

And  by  her  waist  sae  sma' ; 
Ye  may  ken  her  by  her  searchin'  ee, 

And  hair  like  glossy  craw  ; 
Ye  may  ken  her  by  the  hinnie  mou, 

And  by  the  rose-dyed  cheek, 
But  best  o'  a'  by  smiles  o'  licht 

That  luve's  ain  language  speak  ! 


* 


29 


'  Ye  may  ken  her  by  her  fairy  step  — 

As  she  trips  up  the  street, 
The  very  pavement  seems  to  shine 

Aneath  her  genty  feet ! 
Ye  may  ken  her  by  the  jewell'd  rings 

Upon  her  ringers  sma', 
Yet  better  by  the  dignity 

That  she  glides  through  them  a'. 

'  And  ye  may  ken  her  by  the  voice  — 

The  music  o'  her  tongue  — 
Wha  heard  her  speak  incontinent 

Wad  think  an  angel  sung  ! 
And  such  seems  she  to  me,  and  mair, 

That  wale  o'  woman's  charms  — 
It's  bliss  to  press  her  dear  wee  mou 

And  daut  her  in  my  arms  ! ' 


THE   SPELL-BOUND  KNIGHT. 

x 

LADY,  dar'st  them  seek  the  shore 
Which  ne'er  woman's  footstep  bore  ;  — 
Where  beneath  yon  rugged  steep, 
Restless  rolls  the  darksome  deep  ? 

Dar'st  thou,  though  thy  blood  run  chill, 
Thither  speed  at  midnight  still  — 
And  when  horror  rules  the  sky, 
Raise  for  lover  lost  thy  cry  ? 

Dar'st  thou  at  that  ghastiest  hour 
Breathe  the  word  of  magic  power  — 
Word  that  breaks  the  mermaid's  spell, 
Which  false  lover  knows  too  well  ? 

When  affrighted  spectres  rise 
'Twixt  pale  floods  and  ebon  skies, 
Dar'st  thou,  reft  of  maiden  fear, 
Bid  the  Water-Witch  appear  ? 


31 

When  upon  the  sallow  tide 
Pearly  elfin  boat  does  glide, 
When  the  mystic  oar  is  heard, 
Like  the  wing  of  baleful  bird  — 
Dar'st  thou  with  a  voice  of  might 
Call  upon  thy  spell-bound  knight  ? 

When  the  shallop  neareth  land, 
Dar'st  thou,  with  thy  snow-white  hand, 
Boldly  on  the  warrior's  breast 
Place  the  Cross  by  Churchman  blest  ?  — 
When  is  done  this  work  of  peril, 
Thou  hast  won  proud  Ulster's  Earl ! 


CRUXTOUN    CASTLE. 


The  reader  will  find  a  brief,  but  instructive,  account  of  this 
relic  of  Baronial  times  —  which,  at  different  periods,  has  been 
written  Cruxtoun,  Croestoun,  and  Crookston  —  in  a  work  enti- 
tled 'Views  in  Renfrewshire,'  by  Philip  A.  Ramsay,  one  of  the 
.Poet's  earliest  and  truest  friends.  Of  the  objects  of  antiquity 
remaining  in  Renfrewshire,  Cruxtoun  Castle,  according  to 
Mr.  Ramsay,  is,  in  point  of  interest,  second  only  to  the 
Abbey  of  Paisley.  '  The  ruins  of  this  castle,'  he  observes, 
'  occupy  the  summit  of  a  wooded  slope,  overhanging  the  south 
bank  of  the  White  Cart,  about  three  miles  south-east  from 
Paisley,  and  close  to  the  spot  where  that  river  receives  the 
waters  of  a  stream  called  the  Levern.  The  scenery  in  this 
neighbourhood  is  rich  and  varied,  and  although  the  eminence 
on  which  the  Castle  stands  is  but  gentle,  it  is  so  commanding 
that  our  great  Novelist  has  made  Queen  Mary  remark,  that 
"  from  thence  you  may  see  a  prospect  wide  as  from  the  peaks 
of  Schehallion."  To  Cruxtoun  Castle,  then  the  property  of 
Darnley,  Mary's  husband,  tradition  tells  us,  the  royal  bride 
was  conducted,  soon  after  the  celebration  of  their  nuptials  at 
Edinburgh.' 

» 

THOU  grey  and  antique  tower, 
Receive  a  wanderer  of  the  lonely  night, 
Whose  moodful  sprite 
Rejoices  at  this  witching  time  to  brood 


33 


Amid  thy  shattered  strength's  dim  solitude  ! 
It  is  a  fear-fraught  hour  — 
A  death-like  stillness  reigns  around, 
Save  the  wood-skirted  river's  eerie  sound, 
And  the  faint  rustling  of  the  trees  that  shower 
Their  brown  leaves  on  the  stream, 
Mournfully  gleaming  in  the  moon's  pale  beam  : 
O !  I  could  dwell  for  ever  and  for  ever 
In  such  a  place  as  this,  with  such  a  night ! 
When,  o'er  thy  waters  and  thy  waving  woods, 
The  moon-beams  sympathetically  quiver, 
And  no  ungentle  thing  on  thee  intrudes, 
And  every  voice  is  dumb,  and  every  object  bright ! 
Forgive,  old  Cruxtoun,  if,  with  step  unholy, 
Unwittingly  a  pilgrim  should  profane 
The  regal  quiet,  the  august  repose, 
Which  o'er  thy  desolated  summit  reign  — 
When  the  fair  moon's  abroad,  at  evening's  close  — 
Or  interrupt  that  touching  melancholy  — 
Image  of  fallen  grandeur  —  softly  thrown 
O'er  every  crumbling  and  moss-bedded  stone, 
And  broken  arch,  and  pointed  turret  hoar, 
Which  speak  a  tale  of  times  that  are  no  more  ; 
Of  triumphs  they  have  seen, 

When  Minstrel-craft,  in  praise  of  Scotland's  Queen, 
Woke  all  the  magic  of  the  harp  and  song, 
3 


34 


And  the  rich,  varied,  and  fantastic  lore 
Of  those  romantic  days  was  carped,  I  ween, 
Amidst  the  pillared  pomp  of  lofty  hall, 
By  many  a  jewelled  throng 
Of  smiling  dames  and  soldier  barons  bold ; 
When  the  loud  cheer  of  generous  wassail  rolled 
From  the  high  deis  to  where  the  warder  strode, 
Proudly,  along  the  battlemented  wall, 
Beneath  his  polished  armour's  ponderous  load ; 
Who  paused  to  hear,  and  carolled  back  again, 
With  martial  glee,  the  jocund  vesper  strain : 
Thou  wilt  forgive !     Mine  is  no  peering  eye, 
That  seeks,  with  glance  malign,  the  suffering  part, 
Thereby,  with  hollow  show  of  sympathy, 
To  smite  again  the  poor  world- wounded  heart : 
No  —  thy  misfortunes  win  from  him  a  sigh 
Whose  soul  towers,  like  thyself,  o'er  each  lewd 
passer-by. 

Relique  of  earlier  days, 

Yes,  dear  thou  art  to  me  !  — 

And  beauteous,  marvellously, 

The  moon-light  strays 

Where  banners  glorious  floated  on  thy  walls  — 

Clipping  their  ivied  honours  with  its  thread 

Of  half-angelick  light : 


35 


And  though  o'er  thee  Time's  wasting  dews  have  shed 

Their  all  consuming  blight, 

Maternal  moon-light  falls 

On  and  around  thee  full  of  tenderness, 

Yielding  thy  shattered  frame  pure  love's  divine  caress. 

Ah  me !  thy  joy  of  youthful  lustyhood 
Is  gone,  old  Cruxtoun !     Ever,  ever  gone  ! 
Here  hast  thou  stood 
In  nakedness  and  sorrow,  roofless,  lone, 
For  many  a  weary  year  —  and  to  the  storm 
Hast  bared  thy  wasted  form  — 
Braving  destruction,  in  the  attitude 
Of  reckless  desolation.     Like  to  one 
Who  in  this  world  no  longer  may  rejoice, 
"Who  watching  by  Hope's  grave 
With  stern  delight,  impatient  is  to  brave 
The  worst  of  coming  ills  —  So,  Cruxtoun !  thou 
Rear'st  to  the  tempest  thy  undaunted  brow  ; 
When  Heaven's  red  coursers  flash  athwart  the  sky  — 
Startling  the  guilty  as  they  thunder  by  — 
Then  raisest  thou  a  wild,  unearthly  hymn, 
Like  death-desiring  bard  whose  star  hath  long  been 
dim  ! 

Neglected  though  thou  art, 

Sad  remnant  of  old  Scotland's  worthier  days, 


36 


When  independence  had  its  chivalrie, 

There  still  is  left  one  heart 

To  mourn  for  thee  ! 

And  though,  alas  !  thy  venerable  form 

Must  bide  the  buffet  of  each  vagrant  storm, 

One  spirit  yet  is  left  to  linger  here 

And  pay  the  tribute  of  a  silent  tear ; 

Who  in  his  memory  registers  the  dints 

That  Time  hath  graved  upon  thy  sorrowing  brow ; 

Who  of  thy  woods  loves  the  Autumnal  tints, 

Whose  voice  —  perforce  indignant  —  mingles  now 

In  all  thy  lamentations  —  with  the  tone, 

Not  of  these  paltry  times,  but  of  brave  years  long  gone. 

Nor  is't  the  moonshine  clear, 
Leeming  on  tower,  and  tree,  and  silent  stream, 
Nor  hawthorn  blossoms  which  in  Spring  appear, 
Most  prodigal  of  perfume  —  nor  the  sweets 
Of  wood-flowers,  peeping  up  at  the  blue  sky ; 
Nor  the  mild  aspect  of  blue  hills  which  greet 
The  eager  vision  —  blessed  albeit  they  seem, 
Each  with  its  charm  particular — To  my  eye, 
Old  Cruxtoun  hath  an  interest  all  its  own  — 
From  many  a  cherished,  intersociate  thought  — 
From  feelings  multitudinous  well  known 
To  souls  in  whom  the  patriot  fire  hath  wrought 


37 


Sublime  remembrance  of  their  country's  fame  : 

Radiant  thou  art  in  the  ethereal  flame  — 

The  lustrous  splendour  —  which  those  feelings  shed 

O'er  many  a  scene  of  this  my  father-land  ! 

Thou,  grey  magician,  with  thy  potent  wand, 

Evok'st  the  shades  of  the  illustrious  dead  ! 

The  mists  dissolve, —  up  rise  the  slumbering  years  — 

On  come  the  knightly  riders  cap-a-pie  — 

The  herald  calls  —  hark,  to  the  clash  of  spears  ! 

To  Beauty's  Queen  each  hero  bends  the  knee  ; 

Dreams  of  the  Past,  how  exquisite  ye  be  — 

Offspring  of  heavenly  faith  and  rare  antiquity ! 

Light  feet  have  trod 

The  soft,  green,  flowering  sod 

That  girdles  thy  baronial  strength,  and  traced, 

All  gracefully,  the  labyrinthine  dance  ; 

Young  hearts  discoursed  with  many  a  passionate  glance, 

While  rose  and  fell  the  Minstrel's  thrilling  strain  — 

(Who,  in  this  iron  age,  might  sing  in  vain  — 

His  largesse  coarse  neglect,  and  mickle  pain !) 

Waste  are  thy  chambers  tenantless,  which  long 

Echoed  the  notes  of  gleeful  minstrelsie  — 

Notes  once  the  prelude  to  a  tale  of  wrong, 

Of  Royalty  and  love.  —  Beneath  yon  tree  — 

Now  bare  and  blasted  —  so  our  annals  tell  — 


38 


The  martyr  Queen,  ere  that  her  fortunes  knew 
A  darker  shade  than  cast  her  favourite  yew, 
Loved  Darnley  passing  well  — 
Loved  him  with  tender  woman's  generous  love, 
And  bade  farewell  awhile  to  courtly  state 
And  pageantry  for  yon  o'ershadowing  grove  — 
For  the  lone  river's  banks  where  small  birds  sing  — 
Their  little  hearts  with  summer  joys  elate  — 
Where  tall  broom  blossoms,  flowers  profusely  spring ; 
There  he,  the  most  exalted  of  the  land, 
Pressed,  with  the  grace  of  youth,  a  Sovereign's  peer- 
less hand. 

And  she  did  die  !  — 

Die  as  a  traitor  —  in  the  brazen  gaze 

Of  her  —  a  kinswoman  and  enemy  — 

O  well  may  such  an  act  my  soul  amaze  ! 

My  country,  at  that  hour,  where  slept  thy  sword  ? 

Where  was  the  high  and  chivalrous  accord, 

To  fling  the  avenging  banner  of  our  land, 

Like  sheeted  flame,  forth  to  the  winds  of  heaven  ? 

O  shame  among  the  nations  —  thus  to  brook 

The  damning  stain  to  thy  escutcheon  given ! 

How  could  thy  sons  upon  their  mothers  look, 

Degenerate  Scotland  !  heedless  of  the  wail 

Of  thy  lorn  Queen,  in  her  captivity  ! 


39 


Unmov'd  wert  thou  by  all  her  bitter  bale  — 
Untouch'd  by  thought  that  she  had  governed  thee  — 
Hard  was  each  heart  and  cold  each  powerful  hand  — 
No  harnessed  steed  rushed  panting  to  the  fight ; 
O  listless  fell  the  lance  when  Mary  laid 
Her  head  upon  the  block  —  and  high  in  soul, 
Which  lacked  not  then  thy  frugal  sympathy, 
Died  —  in  her  widowed  beauty,  penitent  — 
Whilst  thou,  by  foul  red-handed  faction  rent, 
Wert  falsest  recreant  to  sweet  majesty  ! 

'T  is  past  —  she  rests  —  the  scaffold  hath  been  swept, 
The  headsman's  guilty  axe  to  rust  consigned  — 
But,  Cruxtoun,  while  thine  aged  towers  remain, 
And  thy  green  umbrage  wooes  the  evening  wind  — 
By  noblest  natures  shall  her  woes  be  wept, 
Who  shone  the  glory  of  thy  festal  day : 
Whilst  aught  is  left  of  these  thy  ruins  grey, 
They  will  arouse  remembrance  of  the  stain 
Queen  Mary's  doom  hath  left  on  History's  page  — 
Remembrance  laden  with  reproach  and  pain, 
To  those  who  make,  like  me,  this  pilgrimage  ! 


ROLAND   AND   ROSABELLE. 

A  TOMB  by  skilful  hands  is  raised, 

Close  to  a  sainted  shrine, 
And  there  is  laid  a  stalwart  Knight, 

The  last  of  all  his  line. 
Beside  that  noble  monument, 

A  Squire  doth  silent  stand, 
Leaning  in  pensive  wise  upon 

The  cross-hilt  of  his  brand. 

Around  him  peals  the  harmony 

Of  friars  at  even-song, 
He  notes  them  not,  as  passing  by 

The  hymning  brothers  throng : 
And  he  hath  watched  the  monument 

Three  weary  nights  and  days, 
And  ever  on  the  marble  cold 

Is  fixed  his  steadfast  gaze. 


41 


'  I  pray  thee,  wakeful  Squire,  unfold ' — 

Proud  Rosabella  said  — 
'  The  story  of  the  warrior  bold, 

Who  in  this  tomb  is  laid  ! ' 
'  A  champion  of  the  Cross  was  he '  — 

The  Squire  made  low  reply  — 
1  And  on  the  shore  of  Galilee, 

In  battle  did  he  die. 

'  He  bound  me  by  a  solemn  vow, 

His  body  to  convey 
Where  lived  his  love  —  there  rests  it  now, 

Until  the  judgment-day : 
And  by  his  stone  of  record  here, 

In  loyalty  I  stand, 
Until  I  greet  his  leman  dear  — 

The  Lady  of  the  Land ! ' 

'  Fair  stranger,  I  would  learn  of  thee 

The  gentle  warrior's  name, 
Who  fighting  fell  at  Galilee 

And  won  a  deathless  name  ?  ' 
The  Squire  hath  fixed  an  eye  of  light 

Full  on  the  Lady  tall  — 
'  Men  called,'  he  said, '  that  hapless  Knight 
Sir  Roland  of  the  Hall ! 


42 

*  His  foot  was  foremost  in  the  fray, 

And  last  to  leave  the  field  — 
A  braver  arm  in  danger's  day 

Ne'er  shivered  lance  on  shield ! ' 
'  In  death,  what  said  he  of  his  love  — 

Thou  faithful  soldier  tell  ? ' 
'  Meekly  he  prayed  to  Him  above 

For  perjured  Rosabelle.' 

'  Thy  task  is  done  —  my  course  is  run  — 

(0  fast  her  tears  did  fall !) 
I  am  indeed  a  perjured  one  — 

Dear  Roland  of  the  Hall ! ' 
Even  as  the  marble  cold  and  pale, 

Waxed  Rosabella's  cheek ; 
The  faithful  Squire  resumed  travail  — 

The  Lady's  heart  did  break ! 


SONG. 

How  I  envy  the  ring  that  encircles  thy  finger !  — 
Dear  daughter  of  beauty  how  happy  were  I 

If,  by  some  sweet  spell,  like  that  ring,  I  might  linger 
At  ease  in  the  light  of  thy  heart-thrilling  eye  ! 

I  would  joy  in  the  music  thy  light  pulse  is  making, 
I  would  press  the  soft  cheek  where  the  rose-buds 

unfold  — 
I  would  rest  on  the  brow  where  pure  thought's  ever 

waking, 
And  lovingly  glide  through  thy  tresses  of  gold. 

On  the  ripe  smiling  lip  which  young  Cupid  is  steeping 
In  dews  of  love's  day-dawn,  I'd  tenderly  play  — 

And  when  in  thy  innocence,  sweet,  thou  wert  sleeping, 
I'd  watch  thee,  and  bless  thee,  and  guard  thee  for 
aye ! 


FOR  BLITHER  FIELDS   AND  BRAVER 
BOWERS. 

FOR  blither  fields  and  braver  bowers 

The  little  bird,  in  Spring, 
Quits  its  old  tree  and  wintry  hold, 

With  wanton  mates  to  sing  ; 
And  yet  a  while  that  wintry  home 

To  branch  and  twig  may  cling ; 
But  wayward  blast,  or  truant  boy, 

May  rend  it  soon  away, 
And  scatter  to  the  heedless  winds 

The  toil  of  many  a  day  — 
And  where,  when  Winter  comes,  shall  then 

The  bird  its  poor  head  lay  ? 

The  moss,  the  down,  the  twisted  grass, 
The  slender  wands  that  bound 

The  dear  warm  nest,  are  parted  now, 
Or  scattered  far  around  — 

Belike  the  woodman's  axe  hath  felled 
The  old  tree  to  the  ground  ! 


45 


And  now  keen  Winter's  wreathing  snows 

O'er  frozen  nature  lie  — 
The  sun  forgets  to  warm  the  earth, 

Forgets  to  light  the  sky  ; 
I  fear  me  lest  the  wandering  bird 

May,  houseless,  shivering,  die  ! 

Forgive  me,  Helen  —  thou  art  free 

To  keep,  or  quit,  the  nest 
I  built  for  thee,  and  sheltered  in 

The  foliage  of  my  breast, 
And  fenced  so  well  none  other  might 

Be  harbour'd  there  as  guest. 
Flee  if  thou  wilt  —  if  other  love 

Thy  fickle  heart  enfold, 
Thou'rt  free  to  rove  where  fancy  waves 

Her  wand  of  faiiy  gold  — 
But  Helen,  ere  thou  canst  return, 

This  bosom  will  be  cold  ! 


HOPE   AND   LOVE. 

THROUGH  life  on  journeying,  by  its  thorny  paths, 

Or  pleasant  ways — its  rank  green  hemlock  wastes, 

Or  roseate  bowers  —  in  utter  loneliness, 

Or  'mid  the  din  of  busy  multitudes  — 

Two  babes  of  beauty  linger  near  us  still  — 

Twin  cherubim  —  that  leave  us  not  until 

We  've  passed  the  threshold  of  that  crowded  inn 

Which  borders  on  Eternity  !     One  doth  point, 

With  gleaming  eye  and  finger  tremulous, 

To  clefts  in  azure,  where  the  sunbeams  slumber 

On  couch  of  vermeil  dye  and  amethyst, 

Bordered  with  flowers  that  never  know  decay  ; 

Where  living  fountains,  cool  and  argentine, 

Trill  on  in  measured  cadence,  night  and  morn  : 

The  other,  with  an  eye  of  sweet  regard, 

And  voice  the  spirit  of  pure  melody, 

Sheds  o'er  the  darkest  track  some  ray  of  gladness  — 

To  elevate  the  heart,  and  nerve  the  soul, 

With  unslacked  sinews,  vigorously  to  brave 

The  perils  of  the  unattempted  road  : 


47 


Love,  gentle  Love  —  one  fellow-pilgrim  is  — 
The  other  Hope  —  dear,  never-dying  Hope  !- 
And  they  to  churle,  as  well  as  key  sour  yield 
The  tender  ministering  of  faithful  friends ! 


SONGE  OF  THE  SCHIPPE. 

WHEN  surly  windes  and  grewsome  cloudes 

Are  tilting  in  the  skye, 
And  every  little  star's  abed, 

That  glimmered  cheerilie  — 
O  then  'tis  meet  for  mariners 

To  steer  righte  carefulie  ! 
For  mermaides  sing  the  schippman's  dirge, 

Where  ocean  weddes  the  skye  — 
A  blessing  on  our  gude  schippe  as  lustilie  she  sailes, 
O  what  can  match  our  gude  schippe  when  blest  with 
favouring  gales ! 

Blythely  to  the  tall  top-mast, 

Up  springs  the  sailor  boy  — 
Could  he  but  hail  a  distant  port, 

How  he  would  leap  with  joy ! 
By  bending  yard  and  rope  he  swings  — 

A  fair-haired  child  of  glee  — 


49 


But  oh  !  a  cruel  sawcie  wave 
Hath  swept  him  in  the  sea ! 
There's  sadness  in  the  gude  schippe  that  breasts  the 

waters  wild, 

Though  safe  ourselves,  we  'II  think  with  tears  of  our 
poor  ocean-child ! 

Our  main-mast  now  is  clean  cut  downe, 

The  tackle  torn  away  — 
And  thundering  o'er  the  stout  schippe's  side, 

The  seas  make  fearful  play  ! 
Yet  cheerlie  cheerlie  on  we  go, 

Though  fierce  the  tempest  raves, 
We  know  the  hand  unseen  that  guides 

The  schippe  o'er  stormie  waves  ! 
We'll  all  still  stand  by  the  old  schippe  as  should  a 

trusty  crew, 

For  He  who  rules  the  wasting  waves  may  some  port 
bring  to  view ! 

Our  gude  schippe  is  a  shapely  schippe  — 

A  shapely  and  a  stronge  — 
Our  hearts  sang  to  our  noble  schippe, 

As  she  careered  along  ! 
And  fear  ye  not  my  sturdy  mates 

Though  sayles  and  masts  be  riven  — 
4 


50 


We  know,  while  drifting  o'er  the  deep, 

Above  there 's  still  a  haven  ! 
Though  sorely  we're  benighted  upon  the  weltering 

foam, 

The  sun  may  rise  upon  the  morn  and  guide  us  to  a 
home! 


HE   STOOD   ALONE. 

HE  stood  alone  in  an  unpitying  crowd  — 

His  mates  fell  from  him,  as  the  grub- worms  drop 

From  the  green  stalk  that  once  had  nourished  them, 

But  now  is  withered  and  all  rottenness 

Because  it  gave  such  shelter.     Pleasure's  train  — 

The  light-winged  tribes  that  seek  the  sunshine  only — 

No  more  endeavoured  from  his  eye  to  win 

The  smile  of  approbation.     Grief  and  Care 

Stalked  forth  upon  the  theatre  of  his  heart, 

In  many  a  gloomy  and  mishapen  guise, 

Till  of  the  glories  of  his  earlier  self 

The  world,  his  base  and  hollow  auditory, 

Left  but  a  ghastly  phantom.     As  a  tree, 

A  goodly  tree  —  that  stricken  is  and  wasted, 

By  elemental  conflicts  —  falls  at  last, 

Even  in  the  fulness  of  its  branching  honours, 

Prostrate  before  the  storm  —  yet  majestic 

In  its  huge  downfal,  so,  at  last,  fell  he ! 


CUPID'S   BANISHMENTE. 

WHAT  recke  I  now  of  comely  dame  ? 
What  care  I  now  for  fair  pucelle  ? 

Unscorchde  I  meet  their  glance  of  flame, 
Unmovede  I  mark  their  bosoms  swel, 
For  Love  and  I  have  sayde  farewel ! 

Go,  prattlynge  fool !  —  go,  wanton  wilde  ! 
Seke  thy  fond  mother  this  to  tel  — 

That  loveliest  maydes  on  me  have  smyled, 
And  that  I  stoutly  did  rebel, 
And  bade  thee  and  thy  arts  farewel ! 

With  me  thy  tyrant  reigne  is  o'er, 

Thou  hear'st  thy  latest  warninge  knel ; 

Speed,  waywarde  urchin,  from  my  doore, — 
My  hert  to  thee  gives  no  handsel, 
For  thou  and  I  have  sworne  farewel ! 


53 


So  trimme  thy  bow,  and  fleche  thy  shafte, 
And  peer  where  sillie  gallants  dwel, 

On  them  essaye  thy  archer  crafte, 
No  more  on  me  thy  bolte  schal  tel  — 
False  Love  and  I  have  sunge  farewel ! 


THE   SHIP   OF   THE  DESERT. 

'  ONWARD,  my  Camel !  —  On,  though  slow  ; 

Halt  not  upon  these  fatal  sands  ! 
Onward  my  constant  Camel  go  — 
The  fierce  Simoom  hath  ceased  to  blow, 

We  soon  shall  tread  green  Syria's  lands ! 

'  Droop  not  my  faithful  Camel !     Now 

The  hospitable  well  is  near ! 
Though  sick  at  heart,  and  worn  in  brow, 
I  grieve  the  most  to  think  that  thou 
And  I  may  part,  kind  comrade,  here  ! 

'  O'er  the  dull  waste  a  swelling  mound  — 

A  verdant  paradise  —  I  see  ; 
The  princely  date-palms  there  abound, 
And  springs  that  make  it  sacred  ground 
To  pilgrims  like  to  thee  and  me  ! ' 


54 

The  patient  Camel's  filmy  eye, 

All  lustreless,  is  fixed  in  death ! 
Beneath  the  sun  of  Araby 
The  desert  wanderer  ceased  to  sigh, 
Exhausted  on  its  burning  path. 

Then  rose  upon  the  Wilderness 

The  solitary  Driver's  cry  : 
Thoughts  of  his  home  upon  him  press, 
As,  in  his  utter  loneliness, 

He  sees  his  burden-bearer  die. 

Hope  gives  no  echo  to  his  call  — 

Ne'er  from  his  comrade  will  he  sever ! 

The  red  sky  is  his  funeral  pall ; 

A  prayer  —  a  moan — 'tis  over,  all  — 
Camel  and  lord  now  rest  for  ever ! 

A  three  hour's  journey  from  the  spring 

Loved  of  the  panting  Caravan  — 
Within  a  little  sandy  ring  — 
The  Camel's  bones  lie  whitening, 
With  thine,  old,  unlamented  man  ! 


THE   POET'S   WISH. 

0  WOULD  that  in  some  wild  and  winding  glen 
Where  human  footstep  ne'er  did  penetrate, 

And  from  the  haunts  of  base  and  selfish  men 
Remote,  in  dreamy  loneness  situate, 

1  had  my  dwelling  :  and  within  my  ken 

Nature  disporting  in  fantastic  form  — 

Asleep  in  green  repose,  and  thundering  in  the  storm ! 

Then  mine  should  be  a  life  of  deep  delight,  — 

Rare  undulations  of  ecstatic  musing ; 
Thoughts  calm,  yet  ever-varying,  stream  bedight 

With  flowers  immortal  of  quick  Fancy's  choosing — 
And  like  unto  the  ray  of  tremulous  light, 

Blent  by  the  pale  moon  with  the  entranced  water, 

I'd   wed   thee,   Solitude,   dear  Nature's   first-born 
daughter ! 


ISABELLE. 

A    SERENADE. 

HARK  !  sweet  Isabelle,  hark  to  my  lute, 

As  softly  it  plaineth  o'er 
The  story  of  one  to  whose  lowly  suit 

Thy  heart  shall  beat  no  more  ! 
List  to  its  tender  plaints,  my  love, 
Sad  as  the  accents  of  saints,  my  love, 

Who  mortal  sin  deplore  ! 

Awake  from  your  slumber,  Isabelle,  wake, 
'T  is  sorrow  that  tunes  these  strings  ; 

A  last  farewell  would  the  minstrel  take 
Of  her  whose  beauty  he  sings  : 

The  moon  seems  to  weep  on  her  way,  my  love, 

And,  shrouded  in  clouds,  seems  to  say,  my  love, 
No  hope  with  the  morning  springs ! 


58 


Deep  on  the  breeze  peals  the  hollow  sound 

Of  the  dreary  convent  bell ; 
Its  walls,  ere  a  few  short  hours  wheel  round, 

Will  girdle  my  Isabelle  ! 

They'll  take  thee  away  from  these  arms,  love, 
And  bury  thy  blossoming  charms,  love, 

Where  midnight  requiems  swell. 

At  the  high  altar  I  see  thee  kneel, 
With  pallid  and  awe-struck  face  ; 

I  see  the  veil  those  looks  conceal 
That  shone  with  surpassing  grace  — 

The  shade  will  prey  on  thy  bloom,  my  love, 

While  I  shall  wend  to  the  tomb,  my  love, 
And  leave  of  my  name  no  trace. 

We  lov'd  and  we  grew,  we  grew  and  we  lov'd, 

Twin  flowers  in  a  dewy  vale  ; 
The  churchman's  cold  hand  hath  one  remov'd, 

The  other  will  soon  wax  pale  : 
O  fast  will  be  its  decline,  my  love, 
As  this  dying  note  of  mine,  my  love, 

Lost  in  the  evening  gale  ! 


WHAT  IS  THIS  WORLD  TO  ME? 

WHAT  is  this  world  to  me  ? 
A  harp  sans  melodie  ; 
A  dream  of  vain  idlesse, 
A  thought  of  bitterness, 
That  grieves  the  aching  brain, 
And  gnaws  the  heart  in  twain  ! 

My  spirit  pines  alwaie, 
Like  captive  shut  from  day  ; 
Or  like  a  sillie  flower, 
Estranged  from  sun  and  shower  — 
Which,  withering,  soon  must  die, 
In  love-lorne  privacie. 

No  joye  my  hearte  doth  finde, 
With  those  they  calle  my  kinde  ; 
O  dull  it  is  and  sad, 
To  see  how  men  waxe  bad  : 
As  Autumn  leaves  decay, 
So  verteue  fades  away  ! 


TO  A  LADY'S  BONNET. 

INVIDIOUS  shade  !  why  thus  presume, 
O'er  face  so  fair  to  cast  thy  gloom ; 
And  hide  from  the  enamoured  sight, 
Those  lips  so  sweet  and  eyes  so  bright  ? 
Why  veil  those  blushes  of  the  cheek, 
Which  purity  of  soul  bespeak  ? 
Why  shroud  that  brow  in  hermit  cell, 
On  which  high  thoughts  serenely  dwell  ? 
Why  chain  severe  the  clustering  hair, 
That  whilome  shed  a  radiance  rare  — 
A  golden  mist  —  o'er  neck  and  brow, 
Like  sunset  over  drifted  snow  ? 

O  kindly  shade,  for  ever  be 
Between  me  and  love's  witchery ! 
For  ever  be  to  Ellen's  eyes, 
Like  grateful  cloud  in  summer  skies, 


61 


Mellowing  the  fervour  of  the  day  : 
For  should  they  dart  another  ray 
Of  their  enchanting  light  on  me, 
Farewell  the  proud  boast  —  I  am  free  ! 


THE   WANDERER. 

No  face  I  look  upon  doth  greet  me 

With  smile  that  generous  welcome  lends  ; 

No  ready  hand,  with  cheerful  glow, 

Is  now  stretched  out,  all  glad,  to  meet  me 

A  chill  distrust  on  every  brow, 

Assures  me  I  have  here  no  friends ! 

I  miss  the  music  of  home  voices, 
The  rushing  of  the  mountain  flood, 

My  country's  birds  that  blithely  sung 
In  woodlands  where  green  May  rejoices, 

Discoursing  love  when  life  was  young, 
And  mirthful  ever  was  my  mood. 

The  breezes  soft  that  fan  my  cheek, 

The  bower  that  shades  the  sun  from  me, 

The  sky  that  spans  this  Southern  shore, 
Do  all  a  different  language  speak 

From  breeze  and  bower  I  loved  of  yore, 
And  sky  that  spans  my  own  countree. 


63 


They  bring  not  health  to  exiled  men  — 
They  light  not  up  the  home-bent  eye  ; 

No,  piece-meal  wastes  the  way-worn  frame 
That  longs  to  tread  its  native  glen  — 

That  trembles  when  it  hears  the  name 
Of  that  land  where  its  fathers  lie  ! 

The  sun  which  shines  seems  not  the  sun 
That  rose  upon  my  native  fields  ; 

Majestic  rolls  he  on  his  way, 

A  cloudless  course  hath  he  to  run  — 

But  beams  he  with  the  kindly  ray 

He  to  our  Northern  landscape  yields  ? 

The  moon  that  trembles  in  these  skies, 
Like  to  an  argent  mirror  sheen  — 

Ruling  with  mistless  splendour  here  — 
Does  she  above  the  mountains  rise, 

And  smile  upon  the  waters  clear, 
As  in  my  days  of  youth  I  've  seen  ? 

O  beautiful  and  peerless  light, 

That  thou  should'st  seem  unlovely  now, 
That  thou  should'st  fail  to  wake  anew 

Those  looks  of  heartfelt  pure  delight, 
Which  youthful  Fancy  upward  threw, 

While  gazing  on  thy  cold,  pale  brow  ! 


64 


But  this  is  not  a  kindred  land, 
Nor  this  the  old  familiar  stream  ; 

And  these  are  not  the  friends  of  youth  — 
O  heartless,  loveless,  seems  this  strand  — 

Its  people  lack  the  kindly  ruth, 

The  soother  of  life's  turbid  dream  ! 

Away  regret !     Here  must  I  die, 

Remote  from  all  my  soul  held  dear  — 

My  grave,  upon  an  alien  shore, 
Will  ne'er  attract  the  passer-by 

The  lonely  sleeper  to  deplore  — 

No  flower  will  grace  the  stranger's  bier ! 

Winds  of  the  melancholy  night, 

Begin  your  solemn  dirge  and  bland  ! 

The  giant  clouds  are  gathering  fast, 

The  fearful  moon  withdraws  her  light  — 

In  mournful  visions  of  the  past, 
Again  I  '11  seek  my  native  land ! 


SONG. 

I  LOOK  on  thee  once  more, — 

I  gaze  on  thee  and  sigh, 
To  think  how  soon  some  hearts  run  o'er 

With  love,  and  then  run  dry. 

I  need  not  marvel  long 

That  love  in  thee  expires, 
For  shallowest  streams  have  loudest  song, 

Most  smoke  the  weakest  fires. 

I  deemed  thee  once  sincere, — 
Once  thought  thy  breast  must  be 

A  fountain  gushing  through  the  year 
With  living  love  for  me  ! 

For  so  it  was  with  mine, 

The  well-springs  of  my  soul 
Were  opened  up,  and  streamed  to  thine. 

As  their  appointed  goal. 
5 


66 

And  now  they  wander  on, 
O'er  barren  sands  unblest, 

Since  falsehood  placed  its  seal  upon 
Thy  fair,  but  frozen,  breast ! 


THE   HUNTER'S  WELL. 

LIFE  of  this  wilderness, 

Pure  gushing  stream, 
Dear  to  the  Summer 

Is  thy  murmuring ! 
Note  of  the  song-bird, 

Warbling  on  high, 
Ne'er  with  my  spirit  made 

Such  harmony 
As  do  thy  deep  waters, 

O'er  rock,  leaf,  and  flower, 
Bubbling  and  babbling 

The  long  sunny  hour ! 

Tongue  of  this  desert  spot, 
Spelling  sweet  tones, 

To  the  mute  listeners  — 
Old  mossy  stones  ; 


68 

Who  ranged  these  stones  near 

Thy  silver  rim, 
Guarding  the  temple 

Where  rises  thy  hymn  ? 
Some  thirst-stricken  Hunter  — 

Swarth  priest  of  the  wood, 
Around  thee  hath  strewn  them, 

In  fond  gratitude. 

Orb  of  the  green  waste, 

Open  and  clear, 
friend  of  the  Hunter, 

Loved  of  the  deer  ; 
Brilliantly  breaking 

Beneath  the  blue  sky, 
Gladdening  the  leaflets 

That  tremulous  sigh ; 
Star  of  my  wandering, 

Symbol  of  love, 
Lead  me  to  dream  of 

The  Fountain  above ! 


IT  DEEPLY  WOUNDS  THE  TRUSTING 
HEART. 

IT  deeply  wounds  the  trusting  heart 

That  ever  throbs  to  good, 
To  know  that  by  a  perverse  art 

It  still  is  misconstrued : 

And  thus  the  beauties  of  the  field, 

The  glories  of  the  sky, 
To  lofty  natures  often  yield 

Sole  solace  ere  they  die. 

The  things  that  harmless  couch  on  earth, 
Or  pierce  the  blue  of  heaven, 

Have  mystic  reasons  in  their  birth 
Why  they  should  be  sin-shriven. 

The  secrets  of  the  human  breast 

No  human  eye  may  scan ; 
With  Him  alone  those  secrets  rest 

Who  made  and  judgeth  man. 


70 

Nor  lightly  should  we  estimate 

The  Hand  which  rules  it  so, 
Nor  idly  seek  to  penetrate 

What  angels  may  not  know. 

Enough  that  with  a  righteous  will, 

In  this  disjointed  scene, 
The  upright  one,  through  good  and  ill, 

Will  be  as  he  hath  been. 

And  should  a  ribald  multitude 

Repay  with  hate  his  love, 
He  still  can  smile  :  man's  ways  are  viewed 

By  Him  who  rules  above. 


THE   ETTJN   0'   SILLARW001). 

'  O,  SILLARWOOD  !  sweet  Sillarwood, 
Gin  Sillarwood  were  mine, 

I  'd  big  a  bouir  in  Sillarwood 
And  theik  it  ower  wi'  thyme  ; 

At  ilka  door,  and  ilka  bore, 

The  red,  red  rose,  wud  shine ! ' 

It's  up  and  sang  the  bonnie  bird, 
Upon  her  milk-white  hand  — 
c  I  wudna  lig  in  Sillarwood, 
For  all  a  gude  Earl's  land  ; 

I  wadna  sing  in  Sillarwood, 
Tho'  gowden  glist  ilk  wand ! 

'  The  wild  boar  rakes  in  Sillarwood, 
The  buck  drives  thro'  the  shaw, 
And  simmer  woos  the  Southern  wind 
Thro'  Sillarwood  to  blaw. 


72 

'  Thro'  Sillarwood,  sweet  Sillarwood, 

The  deer  hounds  run  so  free  ; 
But  the  hunter  stark  of  Sillarwood 
An  Ettin  lang  is  he  ! ' 

'  0,  Sillarwood !  sweet  Sillarwood,' 

Fair  Marjorie  did  sing, 
'  On  the  tallest  tree  in  Sillarwood, 

That  Ettin  lang  will  hing ! ' 

The  Southern  wind  it  blaws  fu'  saft, 

And  Sillarwood  is  near ; 
Fair  Marjorie's  sang  in  Sillarwood, 

The  stark  hunter  did  hear. 

He  band  his  deer  hounds  in  their  leash, 

Set  his  bow  against  a  tree, 
And  three  blasts  on  his  horn  has  brocht 

The  wood  elf  to  his  knee. 

4  Gae  bring  to  me  a  shapely  weed, 

Of  silver  and  of  gold, 
Gae  bring  to  me  as  stark  a  steed, 

As  ever  stepped  on  mold  ; 
For  I  maun  ride  frae  Sillarwood 

This  fair  maid  to  behold  ! ' 


73 

The  wood  elf  twisted  sun-beams  red 

Into  a  shapely  weed, 
And  the  tallest  birk  in  Sillarwood 

He  hewed  into  a  steed  ; 
And  shod  it  wi'  the  burning  gold 

To  glance  like  ony  glede. 

The  Ettin  shook  his  bridle  reins 

And  merrily  they  rung, 
For  four  and  twenty  sillar  bells 

On  ilka  side  were  hung. 

The  Ettin  rade,  and  better  rade, 

Some  thretty  miles  and  three, 

A  bugle  horn  hung  at  his  breast, 

A  lang  sword  at  his  knee  ; 
'  I  wud  I  met,'  said  the  Ettin  lang, 
'  The  maiden  Marjorie  ! ' 

The  Ettin  rade,  and  better  rade, 
Till  he  has  reached  her  bouir, 

And  there  he  saw  fair  Marjorie 
As  bricht  as  lily  flouir. 

1  0  Sillarwood  !  —  Sweet  Sillarwood  !  - 

Gin  Sillarwood  were  mine, 

The  sleuthest  hawk  o'  Sillarwood 

On  dainty  flesh  wud  dine  ! ' 


74 

'  Weel  met,  weel  met,'  the  Ettin  said, 

'  For  ae  kiss  o'  that  hand, 
I  wud  na  grudge  my  kist  o'  gold 
And  forty  fees  o'  land  ! 

'  Weel  met,  weel  met,'  the  Ettin  said, 

'  For  ae  kiss  o'  that  cheek, 
I'll  big  a  bower  wi'  precious  stanes, 
The  red  gold  sal  it  theik : 

'  Weel  met,  weel  met,'  the  Ettin  said, 

'  For  ae  kiss  o'  thy  chin, 
I'll  welcome  thee  to  Sillarwood 
And  a'  that  grows  therein ! ' 

'  If  ye  may  leese  me  Sillarwood 

Wi'  a'  that  grows  therein, 
Ye 're  free  to  kiss  my  cheek,'  she  said, 

'  Ye  're  free  to  kiss  my  chin  — 
The  Knicht  that  hechts  me  Sillarwood 
My  maiden  thocht  sal  win  ! 

'  My  luve  I've  laid  on  Sillarwood  — 

Its  bonnie  aiken  tree  — 

And  gin  that  I  hae  Sillarwood 

I  '11  link  alang  wi'  thee  ! ' 


75 

Then  on  she  put  her  green  mantel 
Weel  furred  wi'  minivere  : 

Then  on  she  put  her  velvet  shoon, 
The  silver  shining  clear. 

She  proudly  vaulted  on  the  black  — 
He  bounded  on  the  bay  — 

The  stateliest  pair  that  ever  took 
To  Sillarwood  their  way  ! 

It 's  up  and  sang  the  gentil  bird 

On  Marjorie's  fair  hand  — 
'  I  wudna  wend  to  Sillarwood 
For  a'  its  timbered  land  — 

Nor  wud  I  lig  in  Sillarwood 
Tho'  gowden  glist  ilk  wand  ! 

'  The  Hunters  chace  thro'  Sillarwood 

The  playfu'  herte  and  rae  ; 
Nae  maiden  that  socht  Sillarwood 
E'er  back  was  seen  to  gae ! ' 

The  Ettin  leuch,  the  Ettin  sang, 

He  whistled  merrilie, 
'  If  sic  a  bird,'  he  said,  '  were  mine, 
I'd  hing  it  on  a  tree.' 


76 

'  Were  I  the  Lady  Marjorie, 

Thou  hunter  fair  but  free, 
My  horse's  head  I'd  turn  about, 
And  think  nae  mair  o'  thee  ! ' 

It's  on  they  rade,  and  better  rade, 
They  shimmered  in  the  sun  — 

'Twas  sick  and  sair  grew  Marjorie 
Lang  ere  that  ride  was  done  ! 

Yet  on  they  rade,  and  better  rade, 
They  neared  the  Cross  o'  stane  — 

The  tall  Knicht  when  he  passed  it  by 
Felt  cauld  in  every  bane. 

But  on  they  rade,  and  better  rade, 

It  evir  grew  mair  mirk, 
O  loud,  loud  nichered  the  bay  steed 

As  they  passed  Mary's  Kirk  ! 

'  I  'm  wearie  o'  this  eerie  road,' 
Maid  Marjorie  did  say  — 

'  We  canna  weel  greet  Sillarwood 
Afore  the  set  o'  day  ! ' 

'  It's  no  Jhe  sinkin'  o'  the  sun 
That  gloamins  sae  the  ground, 


77 

The  heicht  it  is  o'  Sillarwood 
That  shadows  a'  around.' 

4  Methocht,  Sir  Knicht,  broad  Sillarwood 

A  pleasant  bield  wud  be, 
With  nuts  on  ilka  hazel  bush, 

And  birds  on  ilka  tree  — 
But  oh  !  the  dimness  o'  this  wood 

Is  terrible  to  me  ! ' 

1  The  trees,  ye  see,  seem  wondrous  big, 

The  branches  wondrous  braid, 
Then  marvel  nae  if  sad  suld  be 
The  path  we  hae  to  tread  ! ' 

Thick  grew  the  air,  thick  grew  the  trees, 

Thick  hung  the  leaves  around, 
And  deeper  did  the  Ettin's  voice 
In  the  dread  dimness  sound  — 
'  I  think,'  said  Maiden  Marjorie, 
'  I  hear  a  horn  and  hound ! ' 

'  Ye  weel  may  hear  the  hound,'  he  said, 
'  Ye  weel  may  hear  the  horn, 
For  I  can  hear  the  wild  halloo 
That  freichts  the  face  o'  Morn  ! 


78 


'  The  Hunters  fell  o'  Sillarwood 

Hae  packs  full  fifty-three  : 
They  hunt  all  day,  they  hunt  all  nicht, 
They  never  bow  an  ee  : 

'  The  Hunters  fell  o'  Sillarwood 

Hae  steeds  but  blude  or  bane  : 
They  bear  fiert  maidens  to  a  weird 
Where  mercy  there  is  nane  ! 

4  And  I  the  Laird  o'  Sillarwood 

Hae  beds  baith  deep  and  wide, 
(Of  clay-cauld  earth)  whereon  to  streik 
A  proud  and  dainty  bride  ! 

'  Ho  !  look  beside  yon  bonny  birk  — 

The  latest  blink  of  day 
Is  gleamin'  on  a  comely  heap 
Of  freshly  dug  red  clay  ; 

'  Richt  cunning  hands  they  were  that  digged 

Forenent  the  birken  tree 
Where  every  leaf  that  draps,  frore  maid, 

Will  piece  a  shroud  for  thee  — 
It 's  they  can  lie  on  lily  breist 

As  they  can  lie  on  lea ! 


79 

'  And  they  will  hap  thy  lily  breist 
Till  flesh  fa's  aff  the  bane  — 
Nor  tell  thy  freres  how  Marjorie 
To  Sillarwood  hath  gane  ! 

'  The  bed  is  strewed,  Maid  Marjorie, 
Wi'  bracken  and  wi'  brier, 

And  ne'er  will  gray  cock  clarion  wind 
For  ane  that  slumbers  here  — 

Ye  wedded  have  the  Ettin  stark  — 
He  rules  the  Realms  of  Fear ! ' 


LIKE  A  WORN  GRAY-HAIRED   MARINER. 

LIKE  a  worn  gray-haired  mariner  whom  the  sea 
Hath  wrecked,  then  flung  in  mockery  ashore, 
To  clamber  some  gaunt  cliff,  and  list  the  roar 

Of  wave  pursuing  wave  unceasingly  ; 
His  native  land,  dear  home,  and  toil-won  store 

Inexorably  severed  from  his  sight ; 
His  sole  companions  Hopelessness  and  Grief — 

Who  feels  his  day  will  soon  be  mirkest  night  — 
Who  from  its  close  alone  expects  relief — 

Praying  life's  sands,  in  pity,  to  descend 
And  rid  him  of  life's  burden,  —  So  do  I 
Gaze  on  the  world,  and  time  fast  surging  by, 

Drifting  away  each  hope  with  each  tried  friend  — 
Leaving  behind  a  waste  where  desolate  I  may  die. 


THE  LAY  OF  GEOFFROI  RUDEL. 

WITH  faltering  step  would  I  depart, 
From  home  and  friend  that  claimed  my  heart 
And  the  big  tear  would  dim  mine  eye, 
Fixed  on  the  scenes  of  early  years, 
(Each  spot  some  pleasure  past  endears) 
And  I  would  mingle  with  a  sigh 
The  accents   of  the  farewell  lay  — 
But  for  my  love  that's  far  away  ! 

Friends  and  dear  native  land,  adieu  ! 
In  hope  we  part  —  no  tears  bedew 
My  cheek  —  no  dark  regrets  alloy 
The  buoyant  feelings  of  the  hour 
That  leads  me  to  my  ladye's  bower  — 
My  breast  throbs  with  a  wondrous  joy, 
While  every  life-pulse  seems  to  say  — 
'  Haste  to  thy  love  that's  far  away  ! ' 


ENVTE. 

ANE  plante  there  is  of  the  deidliest  pouir 
Quhilk  flourischis  deeply  in  the  hert ; 

Its  lang  rutis  creip  and  fald  outoure 
Ilka  vive  and  breathen  part : 

Lustilie  bourgenis  the  weid  anon 

Till  hert  hath  rottit  and  lyf  hath  flown. 

Blak  is  the  sap  of  its  baleful  stem, 
Lyk  funeral  blicht  its  leavis  do  fal ; 

In  its  moistoure  is  quenchit  luve's  pure  flame, 
It  drappis  rust  on  inmost  saul : 

Lustilie  bourgenis  the  weid  anon, 

Till  hert  hath  rottit  and  lyf  hath  flown. 

Evir  it  flourischis  meikel  and  hie, 

Nae  stay,  nae  hindraunce  will  it  bruik  ; 

In  ae  nicht  sprynging  up,  a  burdlie  tree, 
Schedding  its  bale  at  ae  single  luik : 

Lustilie  bourgenis  the  weid  anon, 

Till  hert  hath  rottit  and  lyf  hath  flown. 


83 


It  canna  be  kythit  to  the  gudely  sun, 
It  pynyth  sae  at  his  nobil  sicht ; 

It  shrinkyth  quyte  like  a  thing  undone 
Quhan  luikit  on  by  the  blessit  licht : 

In  hert  whence  heevinlie  luve  hath  gone 

Thilke  evil  weid  aye  bourgenis  on. 

Fell  Envie's  th'  plant  of  mortal  pouir 
Quhilk  flourischis  grenelye  in  the  hert  — 

Raining  the  slawe  and  poisonous  shouir 
Quhilk  cankereth  the  vertuous  part : 

Black  Envie  wherever  its  seed  is  sawin, 

Fashion  is  a  hert  like  the  foul  Fiend's  awin  ! 


LOVE'S    TOKENS. 

LOVE'S  herald  is  not  speech  — 

His  fear-fraught  tongue  is  mute  — 
His  presence  is  bewrayed 

By  blushes  deep  that  shoot 
Athwart  the  conscious  brow, 

And  mantle  on  the  cheek, 
Then  fleet  for  tints  of  snow 

Which  soft  confusion  speak  ; 
Thus  red  and  white  have  place 
By  turns  on  true  love's  face. 

Love  vaunteth  not  his  worth 

In  gaudy,  glozing  phrase, 
His  home  is  not  in  breast 

Where  thought  of  worldling  stays  ; 
In  modest  loyaltie 

His  fountain  doth  abide  ; 
In  bosom  greatly  good 

The  lucid  pulses  tide 
That  ebb  and  flow  there  ever, 
Till  soul  and  body  sever. 


85 

Trust  not  the  ready  lip 

Whence  flows  the  fulsome  song  — 
True  love  aye  gently  hymns, 

False  love  chaunts  loud  and  long. 
Young  Beauty,  cherish  well 

The  bashful,  anxious  eye, 
The  lip  that  may  not  move, 

The  breast  that  stills  the  sigh  — 
A  recreant  to  thee 
Their  lord  will  never  be  ! 


O  SAY  NOT  PURE  AFFECTIONS  CHANGE! 

0  SAY  not  pure  affections  change 
When  fixed  they  once  have  been, 

Or  that  between  two  noble  hearts 
Hate  e'er  can  intervene  ! 

Though  coldness  for  a  while  may  freeze 
The  love-springs  of  the  soul, 

Though  angry  pride  its  sympathies 
May  for  a  time  control, 

Yet  such  estrangement  cannot  last  — 

A  tone,  a  touch,  a  look, 
Dissolves  at  once  the  icyness 

That  crisp'd  affection's  brook  : 

Again  they  feel  the  genial  glow 

Within  the  bosom  burn, 
And  all  their  pent-up  tenderness 

With  tenfold  force  return ! 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  FAIR  LILYE. 

THE  Earlsburn  Glen  is  gay  and  green, 

The  Earlsburn  water  cleir, 
And  blythely  blume  on  Earlsburn  bank 

The  broom  and  eke  the  brier ! 

Twa  Sisters  gaed  up  Earlsburn  glen  — 
Twa  maidens  bricht  o'  blee  — 

The  tane  she  was  the  Rose  sae  red, 
The  tither  the  Fair  Lilye  ! 

'  Ye  mauna  droop  and  dwyne,  Sister' — 

Said  Rose  to  fair  Lilye  — 
'  Yer  heart  ye  mauna  brek,  Sister  — 

For  ane  that's  ower  the  sea: 

'  The  vows  we  sillie  maidens  hear 

Frae  wild  and  wilfu'  man, 
Are  as  the  words  the  waves  wash  out 
When  traced  upon  the  san' !' 


88 


'  I  mauna  think  yer  speech  is  sooth,' 
Saft  answered  the  Lilye  — 

'  I  winna  dout  mine  ain  gude  Knicht 
Tho'  he 's  ayont  the  sea ! ' 

Then  scornfully  the  Rose  sae  red 

Spake  to  the  pure  Lilye  — 
'  The  vows  he  feigned  at  thy  bouir  door, 
He  plicht  in  mine  to  me  ! ' 

'  I'll  hame  and  spread  the  sheets,  Sister, 

And  deck  my  bed  sae  hie  — 
The  bed  sae  wide  made  for  a  bride, 
For  I  think  I  sune  sal  die  ! 

'  Your  wierd  I  sal  na  be,  Sister, 
As  mine  I  fear  ye'  ve  bin  — 
Your  luve  I  wil  na  cross,  Sister, 
It  were  a  mortal  sin  ! ' 

• 
Earlsburn  Glen  is  green  to  see, 

Earlsburn  water  cleir  — 
Of  the  siller  birk  in  Earlsburn  Wood 
They  framit  the  Maiden's  bier ! 


89 


There 's  a  lonely  dame  in  a  gudely  bouir, 

She  nevir  lifts  an  ee  — 
That  dame  was  ance  the  Rose  sae  red, 

She  is  now  a  pale  Lilye. 

A  Knicht  aft  looks  frae  his  turret  tall, 
Where  the  kirk-yaird  grass  grows  green  ; 

He  wonne  the  weed  and  lost  the  flouir, 
And  grief  aye  dims  his  een : 

At  noon  of  nicht,  in  the  moonshine  bricht, 
The  warrior  kneels  in  prayer  — 

He  prays  wi'  his  face  to  the  auld  kirk-yaird, 
And  wishes  he  were  there  ! 


YOUNG   LOVE. 

IT  seems  a  dream  the  infant  love 
That  tamed  my  truant  will, 

But  'twas  a  dream  of  happiness, 
And  I  regret  it  still ! 

Its  images  are  part  of  me, 

A  very  part  of  mind  — 
Feelings  and  fancies  beautiful 

In  purity  combined ! 

Time's  sunset  lends  a  tenderer  tinge 
To  what  those  feelings  were, 

Like  the  cloud-mellow'd  radiance 
Which  evening  landscapes  bear  : 

They  wedded  are  unto  my  soul, 
As  light  is  blent  with  heat, 

Or  as  the  hallowed  confluence 
Of  air  with  odours  sweet. 


91 


Though  she,  the  spirit  of  that  dream, 

Lacks  of  the  loveliness 
Young  fancy  robed  her  in,  yet  I 

May  hardly  love  her  less : 

Even  when  as  in  my  boyish  time 

I  nestled  by  her  side, 
Her  ever  gentle  impulses 

Thorrow  my  being  glide  ! 


TO   THE   TEMPEST. 

CHAUNT  on,  ye  stormy  voices,  loud  and  shrill 
Your  wild  tumultuous  melody  —  strip 
The  forest  of  its  clothing  —  leave  it  bare, 
As  a  deserted  and  world-trampled  foundling ! 
Lash  on,  ye  rains,  and  pour  your  tide  of  might 
Unceasingly  and  strong,  and  blench  the  Earth's 
Green  mantle  with  your  floods  :  Suddenly  swell 
The  brawling  torrent  in  the  sleep-locked  night, 
That  it  may  deluge  the  subjacent  plain, 
And  spread  destruction  where  security 
Had  fondly  built  its  faith,  and  knelt  before 
The  altar  of  its  refuge  —  Sweep  ye  down 
Palace  and  mansion,  hall  and  lofty  tower, 
And  creeping  shed,  into  one  common  grave  ! 

Ye  lightnings  that  are  flashing  fitfully  — 
(Heaven's  messengers)  askant  the  lurid  sky, 
Burst  forth  in  one  vast  sheet  of  whelming  fire  — 
Pass  through  the  furnace  the  base  lords  of  earth, 


93 


With  subtile  fury  inextinguishable  — 

That,  purified,  they  may  again  appear 

As  erst  they  were,  free  of  soul-searing  sin 

And  worldly-mindedness  !     For  mailed  they  be, 

Obdurate  all,  in  selfish  adamant, 

So  rivetted,  that  it  would  need  a  fire 

Potential  as  the  ever-burning  pit, 

To  overcome  and  melt  it,  so  that  hearts 

Might  beat  and  spirits  move  to  chords  sublime, 

Tuned  by  the  hand  of  the  Omnipotent, 

As  when  man,  from  His  Hands,  in  His  beauty  came ! 


GOE  CLEED  WT   SMYLIS  THE  CHEEK! 

GOE  cleed  wi'  smylis  the  cheek, 
Goe  fill  wi'  licht  the  eye  — 

O  vain  when  sorrows  seek 
The  fontis  of  bliss  to  drie ! 

Quhan  Hope  hath  pyned  away, 

Quhan  carke  and  care  haif  sprung, 
Quhan  hert  hath  faun  a  prey 

To  grief  that  hed  nae  tongue  ; 
O  then  it  is  nae  tyme 

To  feinzie  quhat  we  fele, 
Or  wi'  ane  merrie  chime, 

To  droun  the  solemne  peal 
Quhilk  ringis  dreir  and  dul, 
Quhan  hert  and  eyne  ar  ful. 

Nae  joy  is  thair  for  me 

In  lyf  againe  to  knowe  — 
Nae  plesuir  can  I  see 

In  its  fals  and  fleetinge  schew  !  — 


95 

Lyk  wyld  and  fearful  waste 
Of  wavis  and  bollen  sand, 

Apperis  the  path  I've  tracit 
Inwith  my  natif  land  : 

Fra  it  I  must  depairt, 

And  fra  al  quhilk  hed  mie  hert. 

Farewell  to  kith  and  kin, 

Farewell  to  luve  untrew, 
Farewell  to  burn  and  lin, 

Farewell  to  lift  sua  blew  — 
Farewell  to  banck  and  brae, 

Farewell  to  sang  and  glee  — 
Farewell  to  pastyme  gay, 

Quhilk  ance  delytit  me  — 
Fareweil  thou  sunny  strand, 
Farewell  ance  kinde  Scotland  ! 


Fresch  flouirs  beare  mie  frend, 
Unto  mie  earlie  graive, 

Thair  bid  them  nevir  dwyne, 
But  ower  mie  headstane  waive  ; 

Perchance  to  sume  they'll  wake 
Remembrance  o'  mie  dome  — 


96 


And  though  fading,  they  maye  make 

Less  lonesum-lyk  mie  tombe  — 
Sins  they  will  emblems  be 
Of  thy  luvinge  sympathye. 

Now  fareweil  day's  dear  licht  — 
Now  fareweil  frend  and  fae  — 

Hail  to  the  starrie  nicht, 

Whair  travailit  saul  maun  gae  ! 


THE    POET'S    DESTINY. 

DARK  is  the  soul  of  the  Minstrel  — 

Wayward  the  flash  of  his  eye  ; 
The  voice  of  the  proud  is  against  him, 

The  rude  sons  of  earth  pass  him  by. 

Low  is  the  grave  of  the  Minstrel  — 
Ungraced  by  the  chissel  of  art ; 

Yet  his  name  will  be  blazoned  for  ever 

On  the  best  of  all  'scutcheons  —  the  heart ! 

Strong  is  the  soul  of  the  Minstrel  — 
He  rules  in  a  realm  of  his  own ; 

His  world  is  peopled  by  fancies 
The  noblest  that  ever  were  known. 

Light  is  the  rest  of  the  Minstrel, 
Though  heavy  his  lot  upon  earth  ; 

From  the  sward  that  lies  over  his  ashes 
Spring  plants  of  a  heavenly  birth ! 

7 


I  MET  WF  HER  I  LUVED  YESTREEN. 

I  MET  wi'  her  I  luved  yestreen, 
I  met  her  wi'  a  look  o'  sorrow ; 

My  leave  I  took  o'  her  for  aye, 

A  weddit  bride  she  '11  be  the  morrow  ! 

She  durst  na  gie  ae  smile  to  me, 
Nor  drap  ae  word  o'  kindly  feelin', 

Yet  down  her  cheeks  the  bitter  tears, 
In  monie  a  pearly  bead,  were  stealin'. 

I  could  na  my  lost  luve  upbraid, 

Altho'  my  dearest  hopes  were  blighted, 

I  could  na  say  — '  ye  're  fause  to  me  ! '  — 
Tho'  to  anither  she  was  plighted. 

Like  suthfast  friens  whom  death  divides, 
In  Heaven  to  meet,  we  silent  parted ; 

Nae  voice  had  we  our  griefs  to  speak, 
We  felt  sae  lone  and  broken-hearted. 


99 


I'll  hie  me  frae  my  native  Ian', 

Far  frae  thy  blythesome  banks  o'  Yarrow  ! 
Wae's  me,  I  canna  bide  to  see 

My  winsume  luve  anither's  marrow  ! 

I  '11  hie  me  to  a  distant  Ian', 

Wi'  down-cast  ee  and  life-sick  bosom, 
A  weary  waste  the  warld's  to  me, 

Sin'  I  hae  lost  that  bonnie  blossom  ! 


TO  THE  LADY  OF  MY  HEART. 

THEY  oft  have  told  me  that  deceit 

Lies  hid  in  dimpled  smiles, 
But  eyes  so  chaste  and  lips  so  sweet 

Conceal  not  wanton  wiles ! 

I'll  trust  thee,  lady  !  —  To  deceive, 

Or  guileful  tale  to  speak, 
Was  never  fashioned  I  believe 

The  beauty  of  thy  cheek  ! 

Yes,  I  will  trust  the  azure  eye 
That  thrilled  me  with  delight, 

The  loving  load-star  of  a  sky 
Which  erst  was  darkest  night. 

Ever,  dear  maid,  in  weal  or  wo, 

In  gladness  and  in  sorrow, 
Hand  clasped  in  hand,  we'll  forward  go, 

Both  eventide  and  morrow  ! 


THE   FAUSE   LADYE. 

'  THE  water  weets  my  toe,'  she  said, 

'  The  water  weets  my  knee  ; 
Haud  up,  Sir  Knicht,  my  horse's  head, 
If  you  a  true  luve  be  ! ' 

'  I  luved  ye  weel,  and  luved  ye  lang, 

Yet  grace  I  failed  to  win  ; 
Nae  trust  put  I  in  ladye's  troth 
Till  water  weets  her  chin ! ' 

'  Then  water  weets  my  waist,  proud  lord, 

The  water  weets  my  chin ; 
My  achin'  head  spins  round  about, 

The  burn  maks  sik  a  din  — 
Now,  help  thou  me,  thou  fearsome  Knicht, 

If  grace  ye  hope  to  win  ! ' 

'  I  mercy  hope  to  win,  high  dame, 

Yet  hand  I  've  nane  to  gie  — 
The  trinklin'  o'  a  gallant's  blude 
Sae  sair  hath  blindit  me  ! ' 


102 

'  Oh  !  help  !  —  Oh  !  help  !  —  If  man  ye  be 

Have  on  a  woman  ruth  — 
The  waters  gather  round  my  head 
And  gurgle  in  my  mouth  ! ' 

'  Turn  round  and  round,  fell  Margaret, 

Turn  round  and  look  on  me  — 
The  pity  that  ye  schawed  yestreen 
I  '11  fairly  schaw  to  thee  ! 

'  Thy  girdle-knife  was  keen  and  bricht  — 

The  ribbons  wondrous  fine  — 
'Tween  every  knot  o'  them  ye  knit 
Of  kisses  I  had  nine  ! 

'  Fond  Margaret !    Pause  Margaret ! 

You  kissed  me  cheek  and  chin  — 
Yet,  when  I  slept,  that  girdle-knife 
You  sheathed  my  heart's  blude  in  ! 

'  Pause  Margaret !    Lewde  Margaret ! 

The  nicht  ye  bide  wi'  me  — 
The  body,  under  trust,  you  slew, 
My  spirit  weds  wi'  thee  ! ' 


MY   AIN   COUNTRIE. 

YE  bonnie  haughs  and  heather  braes 
Whair  I  hae  daft  youth's  gladsome  days, 
A  dream  o'  by-gane  bliss  ye  be 
That  gars  me  sigh  for  my  ain  countrie  ! 

Lang  dwinin'  in  a  fremit  land 

Doth  feckless  mak'  baith  heart  and  hand, 

And  starts  the  tear-drap  to  the  ee 

That  aye  was  bricht  in  the  auld  countrie 

Tho'  Carron  Brig  be  gray  and  worn, 
Where  I  and  my  forebears  were  born, 
Yet  dearer  is  its  time-touched  stone 
Than  the  halls  of  pride  I  now  look  on. 

As  music  to  the  lingerin'  ear 
Were  Carron's  waters  croonin'  clear ; 
They  call  to  me,  where'er  I  roam, 
The  voices  o'  my  long-lost  home  ! 


104 

And  gin  I  were  a  wee  wee  bird, 
Adown  to  licht  at  Handle  Ford, 
In  Kirk  O'  Muir  I'd  close  mine  ee, 
And  fald  my  wings  in  mine  ain  countrie ! 


TO  A  FRIEND  AT  PARTING.* 

FAREWELL,  my  friend  !  —  Perchance  again 
I  '11  clasp  thee  to  a  faithful  heart  — 

Farewell  my  friend  !  —  We  part  in  pain, 
Yet  we  must  part ! 

Were  this  memento  to  declare 
All  that  the  inward  moods  portray, 

Dark  boding  grief  were  pictured  there, 
And  wild  dismay ! 

For  thee,  my  fancy  paints  a  scene 
Of  peace  on  life's  remoter  shore  — 

Thy  wishes  long  fulfilled  have  been, 
Or  even  more  : 


*  The   '  Friend  at  Parting '  was  Mr.  Robert  Peacock,   at 
present  (July,  1848)  resident,  I  believe,  in  Germany.  —  K. 


106 

And  when  success  hath  crowned  thy  toil, 
And  hope  hath  raised  thy  heart  to  Heaven  - 

Thou  well  mayst  love  the  generous  soil 
Where  love  was  given. 

For  me,  my  friend,  I  fear  there 's  nought, 

In  dim  futurity,  of  gladness  ; 
There  ever  rises  on  my  thought 

A  dream  of  sadness  : 

Yet  gazing  upon  guileless  faces, 

Sunned  by  the  light  of  laughing  eyes, 

I  recreant  were  to  own  no  traces 
Of  social  ties. 

Even  I  may  borrow  from  another 
The  smile  I  fain  would  call  my  own, 

Striving,  with  childish  art,  to  smother 
The  care  unknown. 

Farewell !  Farewell ! — All  good  attend  thce 
At  home,  abroad  —  on  land,  or  sea  — 

That  Heaven  may  evermore  befriend  thee, 
My  prayer  shall  be  ! 


107 

Should  a  dark  thought  of  him  arise 
Whose  parting  hand  thou  must  resign, 

Let  it  go  forth  to  stormy  skies, 
Not  tarnish  thine : 

Never  may  Melancholy's  brood 
Disturb  the  fountain  of  thy  joy, 

Nor  dusky  Passion's  fitful  mood 
Thy  peace  alloy ! 

'  Up,  anchor !  up  ! '  —  The  mariner 

Thus  hymns  to  the  inconstant  wind  — 
Heave  not  one  sigh,  where'er  you  steer, 
For  me  behind ! 


I  PLUCKED   THE   BERRY. 

I  VE  plucked  the  berry  from  the  bush,  the  brown  nut 

from  the  tree, 
But  heart  of  happy  little  bird  ne'er  broken  was  by 

me; 
I  saw  them  in  their  curious  nests,  close  couching,  slyly 

peer 
With  their  wild  eyes,  like  glittering  beads,  to  note  if 

harm  were  near : 
I  passed  them  by,  and  blessed  them  all ;  I  felt  that  it 

was  good 
To  leave  unmoved  the  creatures  small  whose  home  is 

in  the  wood. 

And  here,  even  now,  above  my  head,  a  lusty  rogue 

doth  sing, 
He  pecks  his  swelling  breast  and  neck,  and  trims  his 

little  wing. 


109 


He  will  not  fly ;  he  knows  full  well,  while  chirping  on 

that  spray, 
I  would  not  harm  him  for  a  world,  or  interrupt  his 

lay: 
Sing  on,  swig  on,  blythe  bird !  and  fill  my  heart  with 

summer  gladness, 
It  has  been  aching  many  a  day  with  measures  full  of 

sadness ! 


SONG. 

0  LICHT,  licht  was  maid  Ellen's  fit  — 

It  left  nae  print  behind, 
Until  a  belted  Knicht  she  saw 

Adown  the  valley  wind  ! 

And  winsome  was  maid  Ellen's  cheek, 

As  is  the  rose  on  brier, 
Till  halted  at  her  father's  yett 

A  lordly  cavalier. 

And  merrie,  merrie  was  her  sang, 
Till  he  knelj  at  her  bouir  — 

As  lark's  rejoicin'  in  the  sun, 
Her  princely  paramour. 

But  dull,  dull  now  is  Ellen's  eye, 
And  wan,  wan  is  her  cheek, 

And  slow  an'  heavy  is  her  fit 

That  lonesome  paths  would  seek  : 


Ill 

And  never  sang  does  Ellen  sing 
Amang  the  flowers  sae  bricht, 

Since  last  she  saw  the  dancin'  plume 
Of  that  foresworne  Knicht ! 


TO 


I  NEVER  dreamed  that  lips  so  sweet, 
That  eyes  of  such  a  heavenly  hue, 

Were  framed  for  falsehood  and  deceit, 

Would  prove,  as  they  have  proved  —  untrue. 

Methought  if  love  on  earth  e'er  shone, 
'Twas  in  the  temple  of  thine  eyes, 

And  if  truth's  accents  e'er  were  known, 
'Twas  in  the  music  of  thy  sighs. 

Has  then  thy  love  been  all  a  show, 
Thy  plighted  truth  an  acted  part  — 

Did  no  affection  ever  glow 

In  the  chill  region  of  that  heart  ? 

And  could'st  thou  seem  to  me  to  cling 
Like  tendril  of  the  clasping  vine, 

Yet  all  prove  vain  imagining, 

Thy  soul  yield  no  response  to  mine  ? 


113 

It  has  been  so  —  so  let  it  be  — 

Rejoice,  thou  false  one,  in  thy  guile, 

Others,  perhaps,  may  censure  thee, 
I  would  not  dim  thy  fickle  smile. 

Farewell !  —  In  kindness  I  would  part, 
As  once  I  deemed  in  love  we  met  — 

Farewell !  —  This  wrong'd  and  bleeding  heart 
Can  thee  Forgive,  but  not  Forget ! 


THE   KNIGHT'S    REQUIEM. 

THEY  have  waked  the  knight  so  meikle  of  might, 

They  have  cased  his  corpse  in  oak ; 
There  was  not  an  eye  that  then  was  dry, 

There  was  not  a  tongue  that  spoke. 
The  stout  and  the  true  lay  stretched  in  view, 

Pale  and  cold  as  the  marble  stone ; 
And  the  voice  was  still  that  like  trumpet  shrill, 

Had  to  glory  led  them  on  ; 
And  the  deadly  hand  whose  battle  brand 

Mowed  down  the  reeling  foe, 
Was  laid  at  rest  on  the  manly  breast, 

That  never  mote  mought  glow. 

With  book,  and  bell,  and  waxen  light, 

The  mass  for  the  dead  is  sung ; 
Thorough  the  night  in  the  turret's  height, 

The  great  church-bells  are  rung. 


115 

Oh  wo  !  oh  wo  !  for  those  that  go 

From  light  of  life  away, 
Whose  limbs  may  rest  with  worms  unblest, 

In  the  damp  and  silent  clay  ! 

With  a  heavy  cheer  they  upraised  his  bier, 

Naker  and  drum  did  roll ; 
The  trumpets  blew  a  last  adieu 

To  the  good  knight's  martial  soul. 
With  measured  tread  thro'  the  aisle  they  sped, 

Bearing  the  dead  knight  on, 
And  before  the  shrine  of  St.  James  the  divine, 

They  covered  his  corpse  with  stone  : 
'Twas  fearful  to  see  the  strong  agony 

Of  men  who  had  seldom  wept, 
And  to  hear  the  deep  groan  of  each  mail-clad  one, 

As  the  lid  on  the  coffin  swept. 

With  many  a  groan,  they  placed  that  stone 

O'er  the  heart  of  the  good  and  brave, 
And  many  a  look  the  tall  knights  took 

Of  their  brother  soldier's  grave. 
Where  banners  stream  and  corslets  gleam 

In  fields  besprent  with  gore, 
That  brother's  hand  and  shearing  brand 

In  the  van  should  wave  no  more : 


116 

The  clarions  call  on  one  and  all 

To  arm  and  fight  amain, 
Would  never  see,  in  chivalry, 

Their  brother's  make  again ! 

With  book,  and  bell,  and  waxen  light, 

The  mass  for  the  dead  is  sung, 
And  thorough  the  night  in  the  turret's  height, 

The  great  church-bells  are  rung. 
Oh  wo  !  oh  wo  !  for  those  that  go 

From  the  light  of  life  away, 
Whose  limbs  must  rest  with  worms  unblest, 

In  the  damp  and  silent  clay  ! 


THE   ROCKY   ISLET. 

PERCHANCE,  far  out  at  sea,  thou  may'st  have  found 
Some  lean,  bald  cliff —  a  lonely  patch  of  ground, 
Alien  amidst  the  waters  :  —  some  poor  Isle 
Where  summer  blooms  were  never  known  to  smile, 
Or  trees  to  yield  their  verdure  —  yet,  around 
That  barren  spot,  the  dimpling  surges  throng, 
Cheering  it  with  their  low  and  plaintive  song, 
And  clasping  the  deserted  cast-away 
In  a  most  strict  embrace  —  and  all  along 
Its  margin,  rendering  freely  its  array 
Of  treasured  shell  and  coral.     Thus  we  may 
Note  love  in  faithful  woman ;  oft  among 
The  rudest  shocks  of  life's  wide  sea  she  shares 
Man's  lot,  and  more  than  half  his  burden  bears 
Around  whose  path  are  flowers,  strewn  by  her 
tender  cares. 


THE   PAST    A.ND   THE   FUTURE. 

I'VE  looked,  and  trusted,  sighed,  and  loved  my  last ! 
The  dream  hath  vanished,  the  hot  fever's  past 

That  parched  my  youth  ! 
Though  cheerless  was  the  matin  of  my  years, 
And  dim  life's  dawning  through  a  vale  of  tears, 

Yet  Hope,  in  ruth, 

With  smile  persuasive,  evermore  would  say  — 
'  Live  on,  live  on !  —  Expect  Joy's  summer  day  '  — 

Vain  counsel,  void  of  truth  ! 

Yes,  to  the  world  I  've  clung  with  fond  embrace, 
And  each  succeeding  day  did  more  efface 

Its  hollow  joys, 

And  friends  died  out  around  me  every  where, 
And  I  was  left  to  be  the  idle  stare 

Of  vagrant  boys  — 
A  land-mark  on  the  ever-shifting  tide 
Of  fashion,  folly,  impudence  and  pride, 

And  ribald  noise. 


119 


Yes,  I  have  lived,  and  lived  until  I  knew 
The  world  ne'er  alters  its  ungrateful  hue, 

And  glance  malign ; 

And  though,  at  times,  some  chance-sown  noble  spirit 
Its  wilderness  a  season  may  inherit, 

In  want  and  pine, 

Yet  these  be  weeded  soon,  and  pass  away, 
All  unbefriended,  to  their  funeral  clay ! 

Array  thyself  for  flight,  my  soul,  nor  tarry  — 
Thou  bird  of  glory  ne'er  wert  doomed  to  marry 

A  sphere  so  rude  — 
But  to  be  mated  with  some  hermit  star, 
O'er  heaven's  soft  azure  keeping  watch  afar, 

In  pulchritude  : 

Uplift  thy  pinions,  seek  thy  resting-place, 
Where  kindred  spirits  long  for  thy  embrace  — 

Dear  brotherhood. 


OH,  TURN  FROM  ME  THOSE  RADIANT 
EYES! 

OH,  turn  from  me  those  radiant  eyes, 

With  love's  dark  lightning  beaming, 
Or  veil  the  power  that  in  them  lies 

To  set  the  young  heart  dreaming ! 
Oh,  dim  their  fire,  or  look  no  more, 

For  sure  'tis  wayward  folly 
To  make  a  spirit,  gay  before, 

To  droop  with  melancholy ! 

Ungen'rous  victor !  not  in  vain 

Thy  wild  wish  to  subdue  me  — 
To  woo  once  more  thy  glance  I  'm  fain, 

Even  should  that  glance  undo  me : 
What  pity  that  thy  lips  of  rose 

So  fitted  for  heart  healing, 
Should  not,  with  tenderest  kisses,  close 

The  wounds  thine  eyes  are  dealing ! 


0  THINK  NAE  MAIR  O'  ME,  SWEET 
MAY! 

O  THINK  nae  mair  o'  me,  sweet  May ! 

O  think  nae  mair  o'  me  ! 
I'm  but  a  wearied  ghaist,  sweet  May, 

That  hath  a  wierd  to  dree  ; 
That  langs  to  leave  a  warld,  sweet  May, 

O'  eerie  dull  and  pain, 
And  pines  to  gang  the  gate,  sweet  May, 

That  its  first  luve  hath  gane  ! 

Although  the  form  is  here,  sweet  May, 

The  spirit  is  na  sae  ; 
It  wanders  to  anither  land  — 

A  far  and  lonely  way. 
My  bower  is  near  a  ruined  kirk, 

Hard  by  a  grass-green  grave, 
Where,  fed  wi'  tears,  the  gilliflowers 

Above  a  true  heart  wave  ! 


122 

Then  think  nae  mair  o'  me,  sweet  May, 

If  I  had  luve  to  gie, 
It  suk]  na  need  a  glance  but  ane 

To  bind  me,  dear,  to  thee. 
But  blossoms  twa  o'  life's  best  flower 

This  heart  it  canna  bear  — 
It  cast  its  leaves  on  Mary's  grave, 

And  it  can  bloom  nae  mair  ! 


THE   LOVE-LORN    KNIGHT   AND   THE   DAMSEL 
PITILESS. 

'  UPLIFT  the  Gonfanons  of  war  —  exalt  the  ruddy 
Rood  — 

Arise  ye  winds  and  bear  me  on  against  the  Paynim 
brood ! 

Farewell  to  forest-cinctured  halls,  farewell  to  song  and 
glee, 

For  toilsome  march  and  clash  of  swords  in  glorious 
Galilee ! 

And  grace  to  thee,  haught  damoisel  —  I  ask  no  part- 
ing tear  — 

Another  love  may  greet  thee  when  I  'm  laid  upon  my 
bier ! 

'  My  bark  upon  the  foaming  flood  shall  bound  before 

the  gale, 
Like  arrow  in  its  flight,  until  the  Holy  Land  we  hail  ; 


124 


Then  firmly  shall  our  anchors  grasp  the  belt  of  East- 
ern land, 

For  planks  will  shrink  and  cordage  rot  ere  we  regain 
this  strand  ; 

And  welcome  be  the  trumpet's  sound,  the  war-steed's 
tramp  and  neigh, 

And  death,  for  Palestina's  cause,  in  the  battle's  hot 
mellay  ! ' 

O  never  for  that  love-lorn  youth  did  vessel  cleave  the 
seas! 

The  hand  of  death  was  on  the  lips  that  wooed  the 
ocean  breeze  ; 

They  bare  him  to  the  damoisel,  they  laid  him  at  her 
knee, 

Though  knight  and  pilgrim  wept  aloud — no  tear  dropt 
that  ladye  — 

Three  times  she  kissed  the  clay-cold  brow  of  her  un- 
bidden guest, 

Then  took  the  vows  at  Mary's  shrine,  and  there  her 
ashes  rest. 


LOVE  IN  WORLDLYNESSE. 

THE  gentle  heart,  the  truthful  love, 

Have  flemed  this  earth  and  fled  to  Heaven 
The  noblest  spirits  earliest  prove 
Not  Here  below,  but  There  above, 

Is  Hope  no  shadow  —  Bliss  no  sweven ! 

There  was  a  time,  old  Poets  say, 

When  the  crazed  world  was  in  its  nonage, 
That  they  who  loved  were  loved  alwaye, 
With  faith  transparent  as  the  day, 

But  this,  meseems,  was  fiction's  coinage. 

We  cannot  mate  here  as  we  ought, 

With  laws  opposed  to  simple  feeling ; 
Professions  are,  like  lutestring,  bought, 
And  worldly  ties  soon  breed  distraught, 
To  end  in  cold  congealing ! 


126 


Forms  we  have  worshipped  oft  become, 

If  haply  they  affect  our  passion, 
Though  faultless,  icy  cold  and  dumb, 
Because  we  are  not  rich,  like  some, 

Or  proud  —  Such  is  this  strange  world's  fashion  ! 

Rapt  Fancy  lends  to  unchaste  eyes 

Ideal  beauty,  and  on  faces 
Where  red  rose  blent  with  lily  tries 
For  mastery,  in  wanton  wise, 

Bestows  enchanting  graces : 

Yet,  as  we  gaze,  the  charms  decay 

That  promised  long  with  these  to  linger ; 

Of  love's  delight  we  're  forced  to  say, 

It  melts  like  dreamer's  wealth  away, 

Which  cheers  the  eye  but  mocks  the  finger ! 

And,  therefore,  move  I  calmly  by 

The  siren  bosom  softly  heaving, 
And  mark,  untouched,  the  tempter's  sigh, 
Or  make  response  with  tranquil  eye  — 

'  Kind  damsel,  I  am  past  deceiving ! ' 

Long  sued  I  as  a  man  should  do, 

With  cheek  high  flushed  by  deep  emotion  — 


127 

My  lady's  love  had  no  such  hue, 
Hard  selfishness  would  still  break  through 
The  glowing  mask  of  her  devotion ! 

No  land  had  I  —  but  I  had  health  — 
No  store  was  mine  of  costly  raiment  — 

My  lady  glided  off  by  stealth 

To  wed  a  lozel  for  his  wealth  — 
And  this  was  Loyalty's  repayment ! 

The  language  of  the  trusting  heart, 

The  soothfast  fondness  firm,  but  tender  — 

Are  now  to  most  a  studied  part, 

A  tongue  assumed,  a  trick  of  art, 
Whereof  no  meaning  can  I  render. 

And  hence  I  say  that  loyal  love 

Hath  flemed  the  Earth  and  fled  to  Heaven  ; 
And  that  not  Here,  but  There  above, 
Souls  may  love  rightfully,  and  prove 

Hope  is  no  shadow  —  Bliss  no  sweven  ! 


A   NIGHT  VISION. 

Lucina  shyning  in  silence  of  the  nicht ; 
The  hevin  being  all  full  of  starris  bricht ; 
To  bed  I  went,  bot  there  I  tuke  no  rest, 
With  hevy  thocht  I  was  so  sair  oppressed, 
That  sair  I  langit  after  dayis  licht. 
Of  fortoun  I  complainit  hevely, 
That  echo  to  me  stude  so  contrarously  j 
And  at  the  last,  quhen  I  had  turnyt  oft 
For  werines,  on  me  ane  sluinmer  soft 
Came,  with  ane  dreming  and  a  fantesy. 

Dunbar. 

I  HAD  a  vision  in  the  depth  of  night  — 

A  dream  of  glory  —  one  long  thrill  of  gladness  — 

A  thing  of  strangest  meaning  and  delight ; 

And  yet  upon  my  heart  there  came  such  sadness, 

And  dim  forebodings  of  my  after  years, 

That  I  awoke  in  sorrow  and  in  tears ! 

There  stood  revealed  before  me  a  bright  maid, 
Clad  in  a  white  silk  tunic,  which  displayed 
The  beautiful  proportions  of  her  frame ; 
And  she  did  call  upon  me  by  my  name  — 


129 


And  I  did  marvel  at  her  voice,  and  shook 
With  terror,  but  right  soon  the  smiling  look 
Of  gentleness,  that  radiant  maiden  threw 
From  her  large  sparkling  eyes  of  deepest  blue, 
Did  reassure  me.     Breathless,  I  did  gaze 
Upon  that  lovely  one,  in  fond  amaze, 
And  marked  her  long  white  hair  as  it  did  flow, 
With  wanton  dalliance,  o'er  the  pillared  snow 
Of  her  swan-like  neck  ;  —  and  then  my  eye  grew  dim 
With  an  exceeding  lustre,  for  the  slim 
And  gauze-wove  raiment  of  her  bosom  fair, 
Was  somewhat  ruffled  by  the  midnight  air ; 
And  as  it  gently  heaved,  there  sprung  to  view 
Such  glories  underneath  —  such  sisters  two 
Of  rival  loveliness!     Oh,  'twere  most  vain 
For  fond  conceit  to  fancy  such  again. 
The  robe  she  wore  was  broidered  fetouslye 
With  flour  and  leaf  of  richest  imagerye  ; 
And  threads  of  gold  therein  were  entertwined 
With  quaintest  needlecraft ;  and  to  my  mind 
It  seemed,  the  waist  of  this  most  lovely  one 
Was  clipped  within  a  broad  and  azure  zone, 
Studded  with  strange  devices  —  One  small  hand 
Waved  gracefully  a  slender  ivory  wand, 
And  with  the  other,  ever  and  anon, 
She  shook  a  harp,  which,  as  the  winds  sighed  past, 
9 


130 

Gave  a  right  pleasant  and  bewitching  tone 
To  each  wild  vagrant  blast. 

Meseems, 

After  this  wondrous  guise,  that  maiden  sweet 
Stood  visible  before  me,  while  the  beams 
Of  Dian  pale,  laughed  round  her  little  feet 
With  icy  lustre,  through  the  narrow  pane  ; 
And  this  discourse  she  held  in  merry  vein  ; 
Although  methought  'twas  counterfeited,  and 
The  matter  strange,  that  none  might  understand. 

She  told  me,  that  the  moon  was  in  her  wane  — 
And  life  was  tiding  on,  and  that  the  world 
Was  waxen  old  —  that  nature  grew  unkind, 
And  men  grew  selfish  quite,  and  sore  bechurled- 
That  Honour  was  a  bubble  of  the  mind  — 
And  Virtue  was  a  nothing  undefined  — 
And  as  for  Woman,  She,  indeed,  could  claim 
A  title  all  her  own  —  She  had  a  name 
And  place  in  Time's  long  chronicles,  DECEIT  — 
And  Glory  was  a  phantom  —  Death  a  cheat ! 

She  said  I  might  remember  her,  for  she 
Had  trifled  with  me  in  mine  infancy ; 
And  in  those  days,  that  now  are  long  agone, 
Had  tended  me,  as  if  I  were  her  own 


131 


And  only  offspring.     When  a  very  child, 

She  said,  her  soothing  whispers  oft  beguiled 

The  achings  of  my  heart  —  that  in  my  youth, 

She,  too,  had  given  me  dreams  of  Honour,  Truth, 

Of  Glory  and  of  Greatness  —  and  of  Fame  — 

And  the  bright  vision  of  a  deathless  name ! 

And  she  had  turned  my  eye,  with  upward  look, 

To  read  the  bravely  star-enamelled  book 

Of  the  blue  skies  —  and  in  the  rolling  spheres 

To  con  strange  lessons,  penned  in  characters 

Of  most  mysterious  import  —  she  had  made 

Life's  thorny  path  to  be  all  sown  with  flowers 

Of  diverse  form  and  fragrance,  of  each  shade 

Of  loveliness  that  glitters  in  the  bowers 

Of  princely  damoisels,  —  Nay,  more,  her  hand 

Had  plucked  the  bright  flowers  of  another  land, 

Belike  of  Faerye,  and  had  woven  them 

Like  to  a  chaplet,  or  gay  diadem, 

For  me  to  wear  in  triumph  —  But  that  she 

Had  fostered  me  so  long,  she  feared,  I'd  spoil 

With  very  tenderness,  nor  ever  be 

Fit  for  this  world's  coarse  drudgery  and  moil : 

Did  she  not  even  now  take  leave  of  me, 

And  her  protecting,  loving  arms  uncoil 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  —  and  though  late, 

Now  leave  me  to  self-guidance,  and  to  fate. 


132 


Then  passed  that  glorious  spirit,  and  the  smile 
She  whilome  wore  fled  from  her  beauteous  cheek : 
And  paleness,  and  a  troubled  grief  the  while 
Subdued  her  voice.  —  Methought  I  strove  to  speak 
Some  words  of  tender  sympathy,  and  caught 
Her  small  white  trembling  hand,  but,  she,  distraught, 
Turned  her  fair  form  away,  and  nearer  drew 
To  where  the  clustering  ivy  leaves  thick  grew, 
And  shaded  half  the  casement  —  There  she  stood, 
Like  a  tall  crystal  column,  in  the  flood 
Of  the  fair  moonshine,  and  right  thoughtful-wise 
She  seemed  to  scan  the  aspect  of  the  skies ; 
Sudden  a  tremulous  tear  filled  either  eye, 
Yet  fell  not  on  her  cheek,  but  dubiously, 
Like  dew  gems  upon  a  flower,  hung  quivering  there  ; 
And,  like  a  love-crazed  maiden,  she  half  sang, 
Half  uttered  mournful  fancies  in  despair ; 
And  indistinctly  in  my  ear  there  rung 
Something  of  years  to  be,  —  of  dark,  dark  years, 
Laden  with  sorrow,  madness,  fury,  tears  — 
Of  days  that  had  no  sunshine  —  and  of  nights 
Estranged  from  slumber  —  of  harsh  worldly  slights  — 
Of  cruel  disappointments  —  of  a  hell 
That  gloweth  in  the  bosom,  fierce  and  fell, 
Which  may  not  be  extinguished  —  of  the  pains 
Of  journeying  through  lone  and  trackless  plains 


133 

Which  have  no  limits  —  and  of  savage  faces, 
That  showed  no  trait  of  pity  ! 

Then  that  maid 

Stretched  her  long  arms  to  heaven,  and  wept  for  shame ; 
And  as  upon  her  soul  dim  bodements  came, 
Once  more,  in  veriest  sadness,  thus  she  said : 
'  I  may  not  cheer  him  more  !  I  may  not  breathe 
Life  in  his  wasting  limbs,  nor  healthy  fire 
In  his  grief-sunken  eye  —  I  may  not  wreathe 
Fresh  flowers  for  him  to  gaze  on,  nor  inspire 
Delicious  dreamings,  when  the  paly  host 
Of  cares  and  troubles  weigh  his  spirit  down, 
And  hopes  delayed,  in  worse  despair  are  lost ; 
Unaided,  he  may  sink  upon  the  path, 
No  hand  of  succour  near,  nor  melting  eye 
To  yield  its  pittance  poor  of  sympathy ; 
Already,  too  successful  have  I  weaved 
My  tiny  web  of  folly ;  undeceived, 
At  length,  he'll  view  its  baseless  fabrick  pass, 
Like  fleeting  shadows  o'er  the  brittle  glass, 
Leaving  no  substance  there ;  and  he  may  curse, 
With  bitter  malison,  his  too  partial  nurse, 
And  charge  her  with  his  sufferings ! ' 


134 


So  wept 

That  maid,  in  seeming  sorrow,  till  there  fell 
From  her  lips  Grief's  volume-word  —  Farewell ! 
And  then,  methought,  she  softly  passed  away, 
As  a  thin  mist  of  glory  on  a  ray 
Of  purest  moonshine  ;  or  like  starlet  bright 
Sailed  onward  through  the  ocean  of  the  night ! 

And  then,  meseems,  I  heard  the  wailing  sound 
Of  a  wind-harp  afar,  and  voice  of  one 
Who  sung  thereto  a  plaintive  melody  ; 
And  some  words  reached  me,  but  the  rest  were  drowned 
In  dimest  distance,  and  the  hollow  moan 
Of  the  night-breezes  fitful  sweeping  by  ; 
Yet  these  stray  words,  erewhile  on  earth  they  fell, 
Told  Hope  had  pitying  smiled  before  her  last  farewell. 

Then  all  grew  dark  and  loveless,  and  afar 
I  saw  the  falling  down  of  many  a  star, 
As  the  moon  paled  in  sorrow  —  And  the  roar 
Of  darkly  tumbling  floods  I  heard,  that  dashed 
Through  the  deep  fissures  of  the  rifted  rock  — 
While  phantoms  flitted  by  with  ghastly  mock, 
And  jeers  malign  —  and  demons  on  me  glar'd 


135 

Looks  of  infernal  meaning  ;  then  in  silence 
Troop'd  onwards  to  their  doom  ! 

Starting,  I  broke 

Sleep's  leaden  bonds  of  sorrow,  and  awoke, 
Wondering  to  find  my  eye-balls  red  with  tears ! 
And  my  breast  heaving  with  sepulchral  fears. 


THIS  TS   NO   SOLITUDE. 

THIS  is  no  Solitude  ;  these  brown  woods  speak 
In  tones  most  musical  —  this  limpid  river 
Chaunts  a  low  song,  to  be  forgotten  never !  — 
These  my  beloved  companions  are  so  meek, 
So  soul-sustaining,  I  were  crazed  to  seek 
Again  the  tumult,  the  o'erpowering  hum, 
Which  of  the  ever  busy  hiving  city  come  — 
Parting  us  from  ourselves.  —  Still  let  us  breathe 
The  heavenly  air  of  contemplation  here  ; 
And  with  old  trees,  grey  stones,  and  runnels  clear, 
Claim  kindred  and  hold  converse.     He  that  seeth 
Upon  this  vesper  spot  no  loveliness, 
Nor  hears  therein  a  voice  of  tenderness, 
Calling  him  friend,  Nature  in  vain  would  bless ! 


THE  LONE  THORN. 

BENEATH  the  scant  shade  of  an  aged  thorn, 

Silvered  with  age,  and  mossy  with  decay, 
I  stood,  and  there  bethought  me  of  its  morn 

Of  verdant  lustyhood,  long  passed  away  ; 
Of  its  meridian  vigour,  now  outworn 

By  cankering  years,  and  by  the  tempest's  sway 
Bared  to  the  pitying  glebe.  —  Companionless, 

Stands  the  gray  thorn  complaining  to  the  wind  — 
Of  all  the  old  wood's  leafy  loveliness 

The  sole  memorial  that  lags  behind  ; 
Its  compeers  perished  in  their  youthfulness, 

Though  round  the  earth  their  roots  seem'd  firmly 

twined : 

How  sad  it  is  to  be  so  anchored  here 
As  to  outlive  one's  mates,  and  die  without  a  tear ! 


THE   SLAYNE   MENSTREL. 

ANE  harper  there  was  —  ane  harper  gude  — 
Cam'  harpin1  at  the  gloamin'  fa'  — 

And  he  has  won  to  the  bonnie  bield 
Quhilk  callit  is  the  Newtoun  Ha'. 

'  Brume,  brume  on  hil'  —  the  harper  sang  — 

'  And  rose  on  brier  are  blythe  to  see  — 
I  would  I  saw  the  brume  sae  lang, 

Quhilk  cleidis  the  braes  o'  my  ain  countree  ! ' 

'  Out  on  ye,  out,  ye  prydefu'  loun, 

Wi'  me  ye  winna  lig  the  nicht  — 

Hie  to  some  bordel  in  borrowe  toun  : 

Of  harpand  craft  I  haud  but  licht ! 

4  Out  on  ye,  out,  ye  menstrel  lewde '  — 

Sayd  the  crewel  Laird  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha'  — 

'  Ye '11  nae  bide  here,  by  blessit  Rude, 
Gif  harpe  or  lyf  ye  reck  ava' ! ' 


139 

'  I  care  na  for  mie  lyf  ane  plack  '  — 
Quoth  that  auld  harper  sturdilie  — 

'  But  this  gude  harpe  upon  mie  back 
Sal  ne'er  be  fylit  by  ane  lyk  thee  ! ' 

'  Thou  liest  there,  thou  menstrel  wicht ! ' 

Outspak  the  Laird  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha'  — 

'  For  ye  to  death  bedene  are  dicht, 

Haif  at  thee  here  and  mend  thy  saw ! ' 

Alace,  Alace,  the  harper  gude 

Was  borne  back  aganis  the  wa', 
And  wi'  the  best  o'  his  auld  hertis  blude, 

They  weetit  hae  the  Newtoun  Ha' ! 

Yet  did  he  die  wi'  harpe  in  han', 
Maist  lyk  ane  menstrel  o'  degree  — 

There  was  na  ane  in  a'  the  land 

Might  matche  wi'  him  o'  the  North  countree ! 

Erie  Douglas  chauncit  to  ryde  therebye  — 
Ane  gallant  gentleman  was  he  — 

Wi'  four  score  o'  weel  harnessit  men, 
To  harrie  in  the  South  cpuntree. 


140 

He  haltit  at  the  Newtoun  Ha'  — 

*  Quhat  novellas  now,  bauld  Laird,  hae  ye  ? ' 
'  It 's  I  haif  slayne  a  worthlesse  wicht, 

Ane  menstrel  lewde,  as  you  may  see  ! ' 

4  Now  schaw  to  me  the  harper's  held, 

And  schaw  to  me  the  harper'  hand, 
For  sair  I  fear  you've  causeless  spilt 
As  gentil  blude  as  in  a'  Scotland  ! ' 

'  Kep  then  his  held,  thou  black  Douglas '  — 
Sayd  boastfullie  fase  Newtoun  Ha'  — 

'  And  kep  his  hand,  thou  black  Douglas, 
His  fingers  slim  his  craft  may  schaw ! ' 

The  stout  Erie  vysit  first  the  heid, 

Then  neist  he  lukit  on  the  hand  — 
'  It's  foul  befa'  ye,  Newtoun  Ha', 

Ye  've  slayne  the  pryde  o'  gude  Scotland  ! 

'  Now  stir  ye,  stir,  my  merrie  men, 

The  faggot  licht,  and  bete  the  flame, 
A  fire  sal  rise  o'er  this  buirdly  bield, 

And  its  saulless  Laird  in  the  lowe  we  '11  tame  ! ' 


141 

The  bleeze  blew  up,  the  bleeze  clipt  roun' 
The  bonny  towers  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha\ 

And  evir  as  armit  men  ran  out, 

Black  Douglas  slewe  them  ane  and  a'. 

The  bleeze  it  roarit  and  wantonit  roun' 
The  weel-pilet  wawis  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha', 

And  ruif  and  rafter,  bauk  and  beam, 
Aneath  the  bauld  fyris  doun  did  fa' ! 

Now  waly  for  the  crewel  Laird  — 
As  he  cam  loupin'  through  the  lowe, 

Erie  Douglas  swappit  aff  his  heid 
And  swung  it  at  his  saddil  bowe  ! 


THE   MERMAIDEN. 

'  THE  nicht  is  mirk,  and  the  wind  blaws  schill, 

And  the  white  faem  weets  my  bree, 
And  my  mind  misgi'es  me,  gay  maiden, 

That  the  land  we  sail  never  see  ! ' 
Then  up  and  spak'  the  mermaiden, 

And  she  spak'  blythe  and  free, 
'  I  never  said  to  my  bonnie  bridegroom, 
That  on  land  we  sud  weddit  be. 

'  Oh  !  I  never  said  that  ane  erthlie  priest 

Our  bridal  blessing  should  gi'e, 
And  I  never  said  that  a  landwart  bouir 

Should  hauld  my  love  and  me.' 
'  And  whare  is  that  priest,  my  bonnie  maiden, 

If  ane  erthlie  wicht  is  na  he  ? ' 
'  Oh !  the  wind  will  sough,  and  the  sea  will  rair, 

When  weddit  we  twa  sail  be.' 


143 


'  And  whare  is  that  bouir,  my  bonnie  maiden, 

If  on  land  it  sud  na  be  ?  ' 

'  Oh !  my  blythe  bouir  is  low,'  said  the  mermaiden, 
'  In  the  bonnie  green  howes  of  the  sea : 
My  gay  bouir  is  biggit  o'  the  gude  ships'  keels, 

And  the  banes  o'  the  drowned  at  sea ; 
The  fisch  are  the  deer  that  fill  my  parks, 
And  the  water  waste  my  dourie. 

'  And  my  bouir  is  sklaitit  wi'  the  big  blue  waves, 

And  paved  wi'  the  yellow  sand, 
And  in  my  chaumers  grow  bonnie  white  flowers 

That  never  grew  on  land. 
And  have  ye  e'er  seen,  my  bonnie  bridegroom, 

A  leman  on  earth  that  wud  gi'e 
Aiker  for  aiker  o'  the  red  plough'd  land, 

As  I  '11  gi'e  to  thee  o'  the  sea  ? 

'  The  mune  will  rise  in  half  ane  hour, 

And  the  wee  bright  starns  will  schine ; 
Then  we  '11  sink  to  my  bouir,  'neath  the  wan  water 

Full  fifty  fathom  and  nine  ! ' 
A  wild,  wild  skreich  gi'ed  the  fey  bridegroom, 

And  a  loud,  loud  lauch,  the  bride  ; 
For  the  mune  raise  up,  and  the  twa  sank  down 

Under  the  silver'd  tide. 


SONG. 

HE  courted  me  in  parlour,  and  he  courted  me  in  ha', 
He  courted  me  by  Bothwell  banks,  amang  the  flowers 

sae  sma', 

He  courted  me  wi'  pearlins,  wi'  ribbons,  and  wi'  rings, 
He  courted  me  wi'  laces,  and  wi'  mony  mair  braw 

things ; 
But  O  he  courted  best  o'  a'  wi'  his  black  blythesome 

ee, 
Whilk  wi'  a  gleam  o'  witcherie  cuist  glaumour  over 

me. 

We  hied  thegither  to  the  Fair  —  I  rade  ahint  my  joe, 
I  fand  his  heart  leap  up  and  doun,  while  mine  beat 

faint  and  low ; 
He  turn'd  his  rosy  cheek  about,  and  then,  ere  I  could 

trow, 

The  widdifu'  o'  wickedness  took  arles  o'  my  mou  ! 
Syne,  when  I  feigned  to  be  sair  fleyed,  sae  pawkily 

as  he 
Bann'd  the  auld  mare  for  missing  fit,  and  thrawin  him 

ajee. 


145 

And  aye  he  waled  the  leanings  lang,  till  we  drew  near 

the  town, 
When  I  could  hear  the  kimmers  say  — '  There  rides  a 

comely  loun ! ' 
I  turned  wi'  pride  and  keeked  at  him,  but  no  as  to  be 

seen, 
And  thought  how  dowie  I  wad  feel,  gin  he  made  love 

to  Jean ! 
'But  soon  the  manly  chiel,  aff-hand,  thus  frankly  said 

to  me, 
'  Meg,  either  tak  me  to  yoursel,  or  set  me  fairly  free  ! ' 

To  Glasgow  Green  I  link'd  wi'  him,  to  see  the  ferlies 

there, 
He  birled  his  penny  wi'  the  best  —  what  noble  could 

do  mair  ? 
But  ere  ae  fit  he'd  tak  me  hame,  he  cries  — '  Meg,  tell 

me  noo : 
Gin  ye  will  hae  me,  there's  my  lufe,  I'll  aye  be  leal 

an'  true.' 
On  sic  an  honest,  loving  heart  how  could  I  draw  a 

bar? 
What  could  I  do  but  tak  Rab's  hand,  for  better  or  for 


10 


THE   LEAN   LOVER. 

I  PACED,  an  easy  rambler, 

Along  the  surf-washed  shore  — 
And  watched  the  noble  freightage 

The  swelling  ocean  bore. 
I  met  a  moody  fellow 

Who  thus  discoursed  his  wo  — 
'  Across  the  inconstant  waters, 

Deceitful  woman,  go ! 

'  I  loved  that  beauteous  lady  — 

More  truly  wight  ne'er  loved  — 
I  loved  that  high-born  lady, 

My  faith  she  long  had  proved : 
Her  troth  to  me  she  plighted 

With  passion's  amorous  show  — 
Go  o'er  the  inconstant  waters, 

Ungrateful  worldling,  go ! 


147 

'  Be  mine  yon  cliff-perched  chapel 

Which  beetles  o'er  the  deep  ; 
There,  like  some  way-worn  palmer, 

I'll  sit  me  down  and  weep. 
I'll  note  upon  the  billows 

Her  lessening  sail  of  snow, 
And  waft  across  the  waters  — 

Go,  fleeting  fair  one,  go ! ' 

He  clambered  to  the  chapel 

That  toppled  o'er  the  deep  — 
There,  like  a  way-worn  palmer, 

He  laid  him  down  to  weep : 
And  still  I  heard  his  wailing 

Upon  the  strand  below  — 
'  Go  o'er  the  inconstant  waters, 

Go,  faithless  woman,  go  ! ' 


AFFECTEST  THOU  THE  PLEASURES   OF 
THE   SHADE? 

AFFECTEST  thou  the  pleasures  of  the  shade, 

And  pastoral  customs  of  the  olden  time, 

When  gentle  shepherd  piped  to  gentle  maid 

On  oaten  reed,  his  quaint  and  antique  rhyme  ? 

Then  welcome  to  the  green  and  mossy  nook, 

The  forest  dark  and  silver  poppling  brook 

And  flowers  in  fragrant  indolence  that  blossom 

On  the  sequestered  valley's  sloping  bosom  — 

Where  in  the  leafy  halls  glad  strains  are  pealing, 

The  woodland  songsters'  amorous  thoughts  revealing 

Look  how  the  morning's  eager  kisses  wake 

The  clouds  that  guard  the  Orient,  blushing  red  — 

Behold  heaven's  phantom-chasing  Sovereign  shake 

The  golden  honours  of  his  graceful  head 

Above  that  earth  his  day-dawn  saw  so  fair !  — 

Now  damsels  lithe  trip  lightsomely  away, 

To  bathe  their  clustered  brows  and  bosoms  bare 

In  virgin  dews  of  budding,  balmy  May ! 


MUSIC. 

STRANGE  how  the  mystically  mingled  sound 

Of  voices  rising  from  these  rifted  rocks 

And  unseen  valleys  —  whence  no  organ  ever 

Thundered  harmonious  its  stupendous  notes, 

Nor  pointed  arch,  nor  low-browed  darksome  aisle, 

Rolled  back  their  mighty  music  —  seems  to  me 

An  ocean  vast,  divinely  undulating, 

Where,  bathed  in  beauty,  floats  the  enraptured  soul 

Now  borne  on  the  translucent  deep,  it  skirts 

Some  dazzling  bank  of  amaranthine  flowers, 

Now  on  a  couch  of  odours  cast  supine, 

It  pants  beneath  o'erpowering  redolence  :  — 

Buoyant  anon  on  a  rejoicing  surge, 

It  heaves,  on  tides  tumultuous,  far  aloft, 

Until  it  verges  on  the  cope  of  heaven, 

Whence  issued,  in  their  unity  of  joy, 

The  anthems  of  the  earth-creating  Morn : 

Yielding  again  to  an  entrancing  slumber, 

In  sweet  abandonment,  it  glidcth  on 


150 


To  amber  caves  and  emerald  palaces, 
Where  the  lost  Seraphs  —  welcomed  by  the  main- 
Their  lyres  suspended  in  their  time  of  sorrow, 
Amid  the  deepening  glories  of  the  flood  ;  — 
There  the  rude  revels  of  the  boisterous  winds 
The  tranquillous  waves  afflict  not,  nor  dispart 
The  passionate  clasping  of  their  azure  arms  ! 


THE   SHIP-WRECKED   LOVER. 

THE  Port-Reeve's  maid  has  laid  her  down 

Upon  a  restless  pillow, 
But  wakeful  thought  is  wandering 

Ayont  the  ocean  billow. 
Her  love 's  away  —  he 's  far  away  — 

A  world  of  waves  asunder  — 
Around  him  now  the  storm  may  burst 

With  fearful  peals  of  thunder ! 

But  yet  —  the  night-wind's  breath  is  faint, 

The  night-beam  entereth  meekly  ; 
But  when  the  moon's  fair  face  is  free, 

Strange  she  should  shine  so  weakly  !  — 
Yet  guided  by  her  waning  beam 

His  ship  must  swim  securely  — 
Beneath  so  fair  a  sky  as  this 

He  '11  strike  his  haven  surely ! 


152 

There  came  a  knocking  to  the  door, 

That  hour  so  lone  and  stilly  ; 
And  something  to  the  maiden  said  — 

'  Arise  for  true  love  Willie  ! ' 
Another  knock  !  another  still  — 

Three  knocks  were  given  clearly  — 
Then  quickly  rose  the  Port-Reeve's  maid 

Her  seaman  she  loved  dearly  ! 

And  first  she  saw  a  streak  of  light, 

Like  moonshine  cold  and  paly  ; 
And  then  she  heard  a  well-known  step  — 

The  maiden's  pulse  beat  gaily  ! 
She  saw  a  light,  she  heard  a  step, 

She  marked  a  figure  slender 
Across  the  threshold  pass  like  thought, 

And  stand  in  her  lone  chamber. 

It  paced  the  chamber  once  and  twice, 

It  crossed  it  three  times  slowly  — 
But  when  she  to  her  Maker  prayed, 

It  fled  like  sprite  unholy. 
The  form  the  vanished  shadow  wore 

Was  of  her  true  love  Willie  — 
O  not  a  breath  escaped  the  lips 

That  pallid  looked  and  chilly  ! 


153 

Long  motionless  the  maiden  stood, 

In  wonder,  fear,  and  sorrow  — 
A  tale  of  wreck,  a  tale  of  wo 

Was  told  her  on  the  morrow  ! 
The  ship  of  her  returning  hopes 

Had  sunk  beneath  the  billow  — 
The  ocean-shell,  the  ocean-weed 

Were  now  her  lover's  pillow  ! 


HOLLO,   MY   FANCY! 

HOLLO,  my  Fancy  !     Thou  art  free  - 
Nor  bolt  nor  shackle  fetters  thee  ! 
Thy  prison  door  is  cleft  in  twain, 
And  Nature  claims  her  child  again  ; 
Doff  the  base  weeds  of  toil  and  strife, 
And  hail  the  world's  returning  life  ! 

Up  and  away  !     'T  is  Nature's  voice 
Bids  thee  hie  fieldward  and  rejoice  ; 
She  calls  thee  from  unhallowed  mirth 
To  walk  with  beauty  o'er  the  earth ; 
Proudly  she  calls  thee  forth,  and  now 
Prints  blandest  kisses  on  thy  brow ; 
On  lip,  on  cheek,  on  bosom  bare, 
She  pours  the  balmy  morning  air : 
The  fulness  of  a  mother's  breast 

Swells  for  thee  in  this  gracious  hour  ; 
Up,  Sluggard,  up  !  from  dreams  unblest, 

And  let  thy  heart  its  love  outpour ! 


155 

Up,  Sluggard,  up  !  all  is  awake 

With  song  and  smile  to  welcome  thee  ; 
The  flower  its  timid  buds  would  break 

Wert  thou  but  once  abroad  to  see  ! 
Teeming  with  love,  earth,  ocean,  air 
Are  musical  with  grateful  prayer ! 
Each  measured  sound,  each  glorious  sight, 
Personifies  intense  delight ! 
The  breeze  that  crisps  the  summer  seas, 
Or  softly  plains  through  leafy  trees, 
Or,  on  the  hill-side,  stoops  to  chase 
The  wild  kid  in  its  giddy  race  — 
The  breeze  that,  like  a  lover's  sigh, 
Of  mingled  fear  and  ecstasy, 
Plays  amorous  over  brow  and  cheek, 
Methinks  it  has  a  voice  to  speak 
The  joys  of  the  awakening  morn  — 
When,  on  exulting  pinion  borne, 
The  lark,  sole  monarch  of  the  sky, 
Pours  from  his  throat  rich  melody. 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !     Fast  a-field, 
Aurora's  face  is  just  revealed  : 
Night's  shadows  yet  have  scantly  sped 
Midway  up  yonder  mountain's  head  — 
While  in  the  valley  far  below, 


The  misty  billows,  ebbing,  show 
Where  fairy  isles  in  beauty  glow  ; 
Delicious  spots  of  elfin  green, 
Emerging  from  a  world  unseen, 
Of  dreams  and  quaintest  phantasies  — 
Spots  that  would  the  Faerye  Queen 
To  a  very  tittle  please  ! 
Away  the  shadowy  phantoms  roll, 

Up-borne  by  the  rising  breeze, 
Fluttering  like  some  banner  scroll ; 

While,  peering  o'er  the  silent  seas 
Of  yon  far  shore,  thou  may'st  descry 
The  red  glance  of  the  Day-Star's  eye  ! 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !     Let  us  trace 
The  breaking  of  the  vestal  dawn  ! 

Through  dappled  clouds,  with  stealthy  pace, 
It  travels  over  mount  and  lawn. 
Lacings  of  crimson  and  of  gold, 
Threaded  and  twined  an  hundred-fold, 
Bar  the  far  Orient,  while  the  sea 
Of  molten  brass  appears  to  be. 
And  lo  !  upon  that  glancing  tide 
Vessels  of  snowy  whiteness  glide  : 
Some  portward,  self-impelled  are  steering, 
Some  in  the  distance  disappearing  ; 


157 

And  some,  through  mingled  light  and  shade, 

Like  visions  gleam  —  like  visions  fade. 

Strange  are  these  ocean  mysteries  ! 

No  helmsman  on  the  poop  one  sees, 

No  sailor  nestled  in  the  shrouds, 

Singing  to  the  passing  clouds, 

But  let  us  leave  old  Neptune's  show, 

And  to  the  dewy  uplands  go  ! 

Now  skyward,  in  a  chequered  crowd, 

Rolls  each  rosy-edged  cloud, 

Flaunting  in  the  upper  air 

Many  a  tabard  rich  and  rare  ; 

And  mantling,  as  they  onward  rush, 

Every  hill  top  with  a  blush, 

To  dissolve,  streak  after  streak, 

Like  rose  tints  on  a  maiden's  cheek, 

When,  in  wanton  waggish  folly, 

The  chord  of  love's  sweet  melancholy 

Is  rudely  smitten,  and  the  cheek 

Tells  tales  the  lip  might  never  speak. 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !     It  is  good 
To  seek  soul-soothing  solitude  ; 
To  leave  the  city,  and  the  mean, 
Cold,  abject  things  that  crawl  therein  ; 
Flee  crowded  street  and  painted  hall, 


158 

Where  sin  rules  rampant  over  all  ; 

To  roam  where  greenwoods  thickest  grow, 

Where  meadows  spread  and  rivers  flow, 

Where  mountains  loom  in  mist,  or  lie 

Clad  in  a  sunshine  livery ; 

Wander  through  dingle  and  through  dell, 

Which  the  sweet  primrose  loveth  well ; 

And  where,  in  every  ivied  cranny 

Of  mouldering  crag,  unseen  by  any, 

Clouds  of  busy  birds  are  dinning 

Anthems  that  welcome  day's  beginning  : 

Or,  like  lusty  shepherd  groom, 

Wade  through  seas  of  yellow  broom ; 

And,  with  foot  elastic  tread 

On  the  shrinking  floweret's  head, 

As  it  droops  with  dew-drops  laden, 

Like  some  tear-surcharged  maiden  : 

Skip  it,  trip  it  deftly,  till 

Every  flower-cup  liquor  spill, 

And  green  earth  grows  bacchanal, 

Freed  from  night's  o'ershadowing  pall ; 

Or  let  us  climb  the  steep,  and  know 

How  the  mountain  breezes  blow. 

Hither,  brave  Fancy  !     Speed  we  on, 
Like  Judah's  bard  to  Lebanon  ! 


159 

Every  step  we  take,  more  nigh 

Mounts  the  spirit  to  the  sky. 

Sounds  of  life  are  waxing  low 

As  we  high  and  higher  go, 

And  a  deeper  silence  given 

For  choice  communing  with  heaven  ; 

On  this  eminence  awhile 

Rest  we  from  our  vigorous  toil : 

Forth  our  eyes,  mind's  scouts  that  be, 

Cull  fresh  food  for  fantasy  ! 

Like  a  map,  beneath  these  skies, 

Fair  the  summer  landscape  lies  — 

Sea,  and  sand,  and  brook,  and  tree, 

Meadow  broad,  and  sheltered  lea, 

Shade  and  sunshine  intermarried, 

All  deliciously  varied : 

Goodly  fields  of  bladed  corn, 

Pastures  green,  where  neatherd's  horn 

Bloweth  through  the  livelong  day, 

Many  a  rudely  jocund  lay  : 

There  be  rows  of  waving  trees, 

Hymning  saintliest  homilies 

To  the  weary  passer  by, 

Till  his  heart  mount  to  his  eye, 

And  his  tingling  feelings  glow 

With  deep  love  for  all  below, 


160 

While  his  soul,  in  rapturous  prayer, 
Finds  a  temple  everywhere. 
See,  each  headland  hath  its  tower, 
Every  nook  its  own  love  bower  — 
While,  from  every  sheltered  glen, 
Peep  the  homes  of  rustic  men  ; 
And  apart,  on  hillock  green, 
Is  the  hamlet's  chapel  seen  : 
Mingled  elms  and  yews  surround 
Its  most  peaceful  burial  ground  ; 
Like  sentinels  the  old  trees  stand, 
Guarding  death's  sleep-silent  land. 
Adown  the  dell  a  brawling  burn, 
With  wimple  manifold,  doth  spurn 
The  shining  pebbles  in  its  course, 
Foaming  like  spur-fretted  horse  — 
A  mighty  voice  in  puny  form, 
Miniature  of  blustering  storm, 
It  rates  each  shelving  crag  and  tree 
That  would  abridge  its  liberty, 
And  roundly  swears  it  will  be  free  ! 
'T  is  even  so,  for  now  along 
The  plain  it  sweeps  with  softened  song ; 
And  there,  in  summer,  morn  and  noon, 
And  eve,  the  village  children  wade, 
Oft  wondej-ing  if  the  streamlet's  tune 
Be  by  wave  or  pebble  made  ; 


161 

But,  unresolved  of  doubt,  they  say 
Thus  it  tunes  its  pipe  alvvay. 

Wood- ward,  brave  Fancy  !     Over-head 
The  Sun  is  waxing  fiery  red ; 
No  cloud  is  floating  on  the  sky 
To  interrupt  his  brilliancy, 
Or  mar  the  glory  of  his  ray 
While  journeying  on  his  lucid  way. 
But  here,  within  this  forest  chase, 
We  '11  wander  for  a  fleeting  space, 
'Mid  walks  beneath  whose  clustering  leaves 
Bright  noontides  wane  to  sober  eves ; 
And  where,  'mong  roots  of  timbers  old, 
Pale  flowers  are  seen  like  virgins  cold  — 
(Virgins  fearful  of  the  Sun, 
Most  beautiful  to  look  upon)  — 
In  some  soft  and  mossy  nook, 
Where  dwells  the  wanderer's  eager  look. 

Until  the  Sun  hath  sunken  down 
Over  the  folly-haunting  town, 
And  curious  Stars  are  forth  to  peer 
With  frost-like  brilliance,  silvery  clear, 
From  the  silent  firmament  — 
Here  be  our  walk  of  sweet  content. 
11 


162 

Around  is  many  a  sturdy  oak 

Never  scaithed  by  woodman's  stroke  ; 

Many  a  stalwart  green-wood  tree, 

Loved  of  Waithman  bold  and  free, 

When  the  arrow  at  his  side, 

And  the  bow  he  bent  with  pride, 

Gave  the  right  to  range  at  will, 

And  lift  whate'er  broad  shaft  might  kill. 

Here,  belike  famed  Robin  Hood, 

Or  other  noble  of  the  wood, 

Clym  of  the  Cleuch,  or  Adam  Bell,  — 

Young  Gandelyn  that  shot  full  well, — 

Will  Cloudeslie,  and  Little  John, 

Or  Bertram,  wight  of  blood  and  bone, 

Plied  their  woodcraft,  maugre  law : 

Raking  through  the  green-wood  shaw, 

Bow  in  hand,  and  sword  at  knee, 

They  lived  true  thieves,  and  Waithmen  free. 

In  the  twilight  of  this  wood  — 
And,  awe-breathing  solitude  — 
Heathens  of  majestic  mind, 
Might  a  fitting  temple  find 
Underneath  some  far-spread  oak, 
Nature  blindly  to  invoke. 
What  is  groined  arch  to  this 
Mass  of  moveless  leanness  ? 


163 

What  are  clustered  pillars  to 
The  gnarled  trunk  of  silvery  hue, 
That,  Titan-like,  heaves  its  huge  form 
Through  centuries  of  change  and  storm, 
And  stands  as  it  were  planted  there, 
Alike  for  shelter  and  for  prayer  ? 

Hither,  my  jocund  Fancy  !     Turn, 
And  note  how  Heaven's  pure  watchfires  burn 
In  yonder  fields  of  deepest  blue, 
Investing  space  with  glories  new  ! 
And  hark  how  in  the  bosky  dell 
Warbles  mate-robbed  Philomel ! 
Every  sound  from  that  glade  stealing    . 
Sadness  woos  with  kindred  feeling  — 
The  notes  of  a  love-broken  heart 
Surpass  the  dull  appeal  of  art ; 
Here  rest  awhile,  for  every  where, 

On  lake,  lawn,  tower,  and  forest  tree, 
Falleth  in  floods  the  moonshine  fair —  ' 

How  beautiful  night's  glories  be  ! 
No  stir  is  heard  upon  the  land,  . 

No  murmur  from  the  sea ; 
The  pulse  of  life  seems  at  a  stand 

As  nature  quaffeth,  rapturously, 
From  yonder  ambient  worlds  of  light, 
Deep  draughts  of  passionate  delight. 


164 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !     It  is  well 
To  ponder  on  the  spheres  above  — 
To  bid  each  fount  of  feeling  swell 
Responsive  to  the  glance  of  love. 
See  !  trooping  in  a  gladsome  row, 
How  steadfastly  these  tapers  glow  ; 
And  light  up  hill  and  darksome  glen 
To  cheer  the  path  of  wand'ring  men, 
And  eke  of  frolic  elf  and  fay 
That  haunt  the  hollow  hill,  or  play 
By  crystal  brook,  or  gleaming  lake, 
Or  dance  until  the  green  wood  shake 
To  fits  of  choicest  minstrelsie, 
Under  the  cope  of  the  witch  elm-tree. 

When  all  is  hush  around  and  above, 
Then  is  the  hour  to  carpe  of  love  ; 
When  not  an  eye  but  ours  is  waking, 
Nor  even  the  lightest  leaflet  shaking  — 
When,  like  a  newly-cap'tured  bird, 
The  fluttering  of  the  heart  is  heard  ; 
When  tears  come  to  the  eye  unbidden, 
And  blushing  cheeks  are  in  bosom  hidden  ! 
While  hand  seeks  softer  hand,  and  there 
Seems  spell-bound  by  the  amorous  air  — 
When  love,  in  very  silence,  finds 
The  tone  that  pleads,  the  pledge  that  binds. 


165 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !  Whither  bounding  ? 
Go  where  rolling  orbs  are  sounding, 
This  dull  nether  world  astounding 
With  celestial  symphonies  ; 
Inhale  no  more  the  soft  replies 
Which  gurgling  rills  and  fountains  make, 

Nor  feed  upon  the  fervid  sighs 
Of  winds  that  fan  the  reedy  lake  ; 

Leave  all  terrestrial  harmonies 
That  flow  for  pining  minstrel's  sake. 

Skyward,  adventurous  Fancy !    Dare 
To  cleave  the  ocean  of  the  air ; 
Soaring  on  thy  vane-like  wings 
Rise  o'er  earth  and  clod-like  things. 
Smite  the  rolling  clouds  that  bar 
Thy  progress  to  those  realms  afar  ; 
Career  it  with  the  Sisters  seven, 
Pace  it  through  the  star-paved  heaven ; 
Snatch  Orion's  baldrick,  —  then, 
Astride,  upon  the  Dragon,  dare 
To  hunt  the  lazy-footed  Bear 
Around  the  pole  and  back  again ; 
Scourge  him  tightly,  scourge  him  faster, 
Let  the  savage  know  his  master ! 


166 

And,  to  close  the  mighty  feat, 
Light  thy  lamp  of  brave  conceit 
With  some  grim,  red-bearded  star, 
(Sign  of  Famine,  Fire,  and  War,) 
And  hang  it  on  the  young  moon's  horn 
To  show  how  poet  thought  is  born. 


LOVE'S    POTENCIE. 

IF  men  were  fashioned  of  the  stone, 
Then  might  they  never  yield  to  love  — 

But  fashioned  as  they  are,  they  owne 
(On  earth,  as  in  the  realme  above,) 

That  Beauty,  in  perfection,  stil 

Controls  the  thoughts,  impels  the  wil. 

And  sure  'twere  vaine  to  stemme  the  tide 
Of  passion  surging  in  the  breast  — 

Since  fierce  ambition,  stubborn  pryde 

Have  each  the  sovereigne  power  confest ; 

Which  rolleth  on,  despite  all  staie, 

Sweeping  ilk  prudent  shifte  awaye. 

What  though  the  mayden  that  we  love 
May  fail  to  meet  the  troth  we  bear  — 

Nor  once  its  generous  warmth  approve, 
Nor  bate  one  jot  of  our  despaire  — 

Doth  not  the  blind  dictator  say  — 

*  Thou  foolish  wichte  pyne  on  alwaie  ! ' 


168 

We  cannot  read  the  wondrous  lawes 
That  knit  the  soul  to  lovelinesse  ; 

We  feel  their  influence,  but  their  cause 
Remains  a  theme  of  mysticknesse  — 

We  only  know  Love  may  not  be 

O'ermastered  by  Wil's  energie. 

Nor  would  I  wish  to  break  the  dream 
Of  troubled  joy ;  that  still  is  mine  — 

Albeit  that  the  cheering  gleam 

Of  hope  hath  almost  ceased  to  shine  - 

So  long  as  Beauty  light  doth  give, 

My  heart  must  feel,  its  love  must  live  ! 


LIFE. 

O  LIFE  !  what  is  thy  quest  ?  —  What  owns  this  world 

Of  stalking  shadows,  fleeting  phantasies, 

Enjoyments  substanceless  —  to  wed  the  mind 

To  its  still  querulous,  ever-faltering  mate  — 

Or  crib  the  pinion  of  the  aspiring  soul 

(Upborne  ever  by  the  mystical) 

To  a  poor  nook  of  this  sin-stricken  earth, 

Or  sterile  point  of  time  ?  —  The  Universe, 

My  spirit,  is  thy  birth-right  —  and  thy  term 

Of  occupance,  thou  river,  limitless  — 

Eternity  ! 


SUPERSTITION. 

DIM  power !  by  very  indistinctness  made 

More  potent,  as  the  twilight's  shade 

Gives  magnitude  to  objects  mean  ; 

Thou  power,  though  deeply  felt,  unseen, 

That  with  thy  mystic,  undefined, 

And  boundless  presence,  fills  my  mind 

With  unimaginable  fears,  and  chills 

My  aching  heart,  and  all  its  pulses  stills 

Into  a  silence  deeper  than  the  grave, 

That  erst  throbbed  quick  and  brave  ! 

Wherefore,  at  dead  of  night,  by  some  lone  stream, 

Dost  thou,  embodying  its  very  sound 

In  thy  own  substance,  seem 

To  speak  of  some  lorn  maiden,  who  hath  found 

Her  bridal  pillow  deftly  spread 

Upon  the  tall  reeds'  rustling  head, 

And  the  long  green  sedges  graceful  sweep, 

Where  the  otter  and  the  wild  drake  sleep  ? 


171 

And  wherefore,  in  the  moonshine  clear, 

Doth  her  wan  form  appear 

For  ever  gliding  on  the  water's  breast 

As  shadowy  mist  that  hath  no  rest, 

But  wanders  idly  to  and  fro 

Whithersoe'er  the  wavering  winds  may  blow  ? 

Thou  mystic  spirit,  tell, 

Why  in  the  hollow  murmurs  of  that  bell 

Which  load  the  passing  wind, 

Each  deep  full  tone  but  echoes  to  my  mind 

The  footfall  of  the  dead  — 

The  almost  voiceless,  nameless  tread, 

And  restless  stirring  to  and  fro  of  those 

To  whom  the  grave  itself  can  never  yield  repose, 

But  whose  dark,  guilty  sprites 

Wander  and  wail  with  glowworm  lights 

Within  the  circle  of  the  yew-tree's  shade, 

Until  the  gray  cock  flaps  his  wings, 

And  the  dubious  light  of  morn  upsprings 

O'er  yonder  hoar  hill's  dewy  head  ? 

And  say,  while  seated  under  this  gray  arch 
WThere  old  Time  oft  in  sooth 
Hath  whet  his  pitiless  tooth, 


172 


And  gnawed  clean  through 

Its  ivy  and  moss-velvet  coat  of  greenest  hue, 

I  watch  the  moon's  swift  march 

Through  paths  of  heavenly  blue  : 

Methinks  that  there  are  eyes  which  gaze  on  me, 

And  jealous  spirits  breathing  near,  who  be 

Floating  around  me,  or  in  pensive  mood 

Throned  on  some  shatter'd  column's  ivied  head, 

Hymning  a  warning  lay  in  solitude, 

Making  the  silent  loneness  of  the  place 

More  chilly,  deep,  and  dead, 

And  more  befitting  haunt  for  their  aerial  race  ? 

Terribly  lovely  power !    I  ask  of  thee, 

Wherefore  so  lord  it  o'er  my  phantasye, 

That  in  the  forest's  moaning  sound, 

And  in  the  cascade's  far-off  muttered  noise, 

And  in  the  breeze  of  midnight,  and  the  bound 

And  leap  of  ocean  billows  heard  afar, 

I  still  do  deem  these  are 

The  whispering  melodies  of  things  that  be 

Immortal,  viewless,  formless  —  not  of  earth, 

But  heaven  descended,  and  thus  softly 

At  midnight  mingling  their  wild  mirth  : 

Or,  when  pale  Dian  loves  to  shroud 


173 


Her  fair  and  glittering  form,  beneath  the  veil 

Of  watery  mist  or  dusky  fire-edged  cloud, 

And  giant  shadows  sail 

With  stately  march  athwart  the  heaven's  calm  face  ; 

Say  then,  why  unto  me  is  given 

A  clearer  vision,  so  that  I  do  see 

Between  the  limits  of  the  earth  and  heaven 

A  bright  and  marvellous  race  — 

A  goodly  shining  company  — 

Flaunting  in  garments  of  unsullied  snow, 

That  ever  and  anon  do  come  and  go 

From  star  to  hill-top,  or  green  hollow  glen, 

And  so  back  again  ? 

Those  visions  strange,  and  portents  dark  and  wild, 

That  in  fond  childhood  had  a  painful  pleasure, 

Have  not,  by  reason's  voice,  been  quite  exiled, 

But  still  possess  their  relish  in  full  measure ; 

And  by  a  secret  and  consummate  art 

At  certain  times  benumb  my  awe-struck  heart  — 

Making  it  quail,  but  not  with  dastard  fear, 

But  strange  presentiment  and  awe  severe, 

With  curious  impertinence  to  pry 

Behind  the  veil  of  dim  futurity, 

And  that  undying  hope  that  we  may  still 

Grasp  at  the  purpose  of  the  Eternal  Will. 


YE  VERNAL  HOURS! 

YE  vernal  hours,  glad  days  that  once  have  been ! 
When  life  was  young,  and  hopes  were  budding  seen ! 
When  hearts  were  blythe,  and  eyes  were  glistening 

bright, 

And  each  new  morn  awoke  to  new  delight ; 
Ye  happy  days  that  softly  passed  away 
In  boyish  frolic  and  fantastic  play ! 
Why  have  ye  fled  ?  why  left  no  more  behind, 
Ye  sunbright  relics  of  my  earlier  years, 
Than  that  faint  music  which,  the  viewless  wind 
At  midnight,  to  the  lonely  wanderer  bears 
From  sighing  woods,  to  melt  him  into  tears  ? 
The  bridled  stream  by  art  may  backwards  flow, 
Youth's  fires,  once  spent,  again  shall  never  glow  ; 
The  flower-stalk  broke,  each  blossom  must  decay, 
And  youth,  once  past,  for  aye  hath  past  away ! 


COME,  THOU  BRIGHT.  SPIRIT! 

COME,  thou  bright  spirit  of  the  skies, 

With  witching  harp  or  potent  lyre, 

And  bid  those  magic  notes  arise 

That  kindle  souls,  and  tip  with  fire 

The  prophet's  lips.     Begin  the  strain, 

That  like  the  trumpet's  stirring  sound 

Makes  the  lone  heart  to  bound 

From  death-like  lethargy  to  life  again, 

Bracing  the  slackened  nerve  and  limb, 

And  calling  from  the  'eye,  all  sunk  and  dim, 

Unwonted  fire  and  noble  daring  ; 

Or  wake  that  soothing  melody 

That  stills  the  tumults  of  the  heart  despairing, 

With  all  its  many  murmurings  small, 

Of  soft  and  liquid  sounds  that  be 

Like  to  the  music  of  a  water- fall, 

Heard  from  the  farthest  depths  of  some  green  wood, 

In  quiet  moon-lit  night,  that  stills  the  mood 


176 


Of  painful  thought,  and  fills  the  soul 

With  pleasant  musings,  such  as  childhood  knows 

When  basking  on  some  green-wood  shady  knoll, 

And  weaving  garlands  with  the  drooping  boughs. 

Or  dost  thou  sing  of  woman  —  of  the  eye 

That  pierces  through  the  heart,  and  wrays 

Its  own  fond  secrets  by  a  sympathy 

That  scorns  slow  words  and  idle  phrase  ? 

Or  of  the  lips  that  utter  wondrous  love, 

And  yet  do  scarcely  move 

Their  ruby  portals  to  emit  a  sound, 

Or  syllable  a  name,  but  round  and  round 

Irradiate  themselves  with  pensive  smiles  ? 

Or  of  the  bosom,  stranger  to  the  wiles 

And  thoughts  of  worthless  worldlings,  which  doth 

swell 

With  soft  emotion  underneath  its  cover, 
And  speaks  unto  the  keen-eyed  conscious  lover 
Thoughts,  feelings,  sympathies,  tongue  ne'er  could 

tell  ? 

Sing'st  thou  of  arms  —  of  glory  in  the  field  — 
Where  patriots  meet  in  death's  embrace, 
To  reap  high  honours  where  the  clanging  shield 
And  gleaming  spear — the  swayful  ponderous  mace, 
And  the  shrill  trumpet  rings  aloud  its  peal 


177 

Of  martial  music  furious  and  strong ; 

Where  ardent  souls  together  throng 

And  struggle  in  the  press  of  griding  steel, 

And  fearful  shout  and  battle  cry, 

Herald  the  quivering  spirit's  sigh, 

That  leaves  the  strife  in  agony, 

And  as  it  fleets  away,  still  throws 

Its  stern  defiance  on  its  conquering  foes, 

Shrieking  in  wrath,  not  fear  ? 


12 


LAYS   OF  THE   LANG  BEIN  HITTERS. 

AMON&  the  ungarnered  Poems  left  by  the  late  Mr.  Mother- 
well,  I  have  found  certain  wild,  romantic,  and  melancholy 
measures,  fittingly  enshrined  in  a  story  of  Teutonic  spirit 
and  colouring,  entitled  '  The  Doomed  Nine,  or  the  Lang  Bein 
Hitters.'  To  publish  the  prose  narrative  lies  not  within  the 
purpose  of  this  selection  —  but  the  songs,  which  conveyed  to 
us  a  very  singular  pleasure  in  days  endeared  to  memory  by 
the  delights  of  friendship,  may  not  inaptly  form  the  concluding 
strains  of  a  volume  whose  general  aspect  accords  well  (too 
well)  with  the  Poet's  cast  of  thought  and  premature  depar- 
ture.—K. 

THE   RITTERS   RIDE   FORTH. 

'  On  the  eastern  bank  of  the  noble  Rhine  stood  a  lofty  tower, 
named  the  Ritterberg ;  and,  in  the  pleasant  simple  days  of 
which  we  speak,  it  was  held  by  nine  tall  knights,  men  of  huge 
stature  and  prodigious  strength,  whose  principal  amusement 
was  knocking  off  the  heads  of  the  unfortunate  serfs  who  in- 
habited the  fruitful  valleys  circumjacent  to  their  stronghold. 
They  madly  galloped  over  meadow  and  mountain,  through 
firth  and  forest,  blowing  their  large  crooked  hunting  horns, 
and  ever  and  anon  uplifting  their  stormy  voices  in  song.'  — 

MOTHERWELL. 

O  BEAUTIFUL  valley, 
We  scar  not  thy  bosom  ; 
O  bright  gleaming  lake,  we 
Disturb  not  thy  slumber ; 


179 

O  tall  hill,  whose  gray  head 

Is  weeping  in  heaven, 

We  come  not  to  pierce  thro' 

Thy  dim  holy  chambers  — 

We  see  thee  and  love  thee, 

And  never  will  mar  thee  :  — 

O  beautiful  valley, 

Bright  lake,  and  tall  mountain, 

The  Ritters  ride  forth ! 

Churls  scratch,  with  the  base  share, 
The  flower-girdled  valley  ; 
And  sheer,  with  the  sharp  keel, 
The  dream-loving  billow ; 
They  pierce  to  the  heart  of 
The  grand  giant  mountain, 
And  fling  on  the  fierce  flame 
His  pale  yellow  life-strings. 
We  come  to  avenge  thee, 
To  slay  the  destroyer. 
O  beautiful  valley, 
Bright  lake,  and  tall  mountain, 
The  Ritters  ride  forth  ! 


LAY  OF  THE  BROKEN-HEARTED  AND 
HOPE-BEREAVED   MEN. 

'  Some  of  those  who  had  been  bereaved  by  these  merciless 
marauders,  and  would  not  be  comforted,  then  paced  towards 
the  hills,  and  looked  back  on  the  scenes  of  their  youth.  They 
sang  with  melancholy  scorn  and  embittered  passion,  this  que- 
rulous ditty,  which  later  generations  have  remembered  as  the 
"  Lay  of  the  Broken-hearted  and  Hope-bereaved  men,"  who 
went  up  to  the  hollowed  mountain,  where  they  shut  themselves 
up  in  a  cavern,  building  up  its  mouth  strongly  with  huge 
stones  ;  and  there,  in  sunlessness  and  unavailing  sorrow,  these 
broken-hearted  ones  died.'  — MOTHER  WELL. 

THE  rude  and  the  reckless  wind, 

ruthlessly  strips 
The  leaf  that  last  lingered  on 

old  forest  tree  ; 
The  widowed  branch  wails  for 

the  love  it  has  lost ; 
The  parted  leaf  pines  for 

its  glories  foregone. 
Now  sereing,  in  sadness,  and 

quite  broken-hearted, 


181 

It  mutters  mild  music,  and 

swan-like  on-fleeteth 
A  burden  of  melody, 

musing  of  death, 
To  some  desert  spot  where, 

unknown  and  unnoted, 
Its  woes  and  its  wanderings  may 

both  find  a  tomb, 
Far,  far  from  the  land  where 

it  grew  in  its  gladness, 
And  hung  from  its  brave  branch, 

freshly  and  green, 
Bathed  in  blythe  dews  and 

soft  shimmering  in  sunshine, 
From  morn  until  even-tide, 

a  beautiful  joy ! 


DREAM  OF  LIFE'S  EARLY  DAY,  FAREWELL 
FOR  EVER. 


'  Others  of  the  "  Broken-hearted  and  Hope-bereaved  men," 
as  they  went  on  their  way,  poured  forth  these  melancholy 
measures.'  —  MOTHERWELL. 


BRIGHT  mornings !  of  beauty  and  bloom,  that,  in  boy- 
hood, 

Gleamed  gay  with  the  visionings  glorious  of  glad  hope  ; 

Dear  days  !  that  discoursed  of  delights  never-dying, 

And  painted  each  pastime  with  tints  of  pure  pleasure ; 

Bright  days,  when  the  heart  leapt  like  kid  o'er  the 
mountain, 

And  gazed  on  the  fair  fields  —  one  full  fount  of  feel- 
ing— 

When  wood  and  when  water,   flower,  blossom,  and 
small  leaf, 

Were  robed  in  a  sunshine  that  seemed  everlasting ; 

Ye  were  but  a  dream,  and  like  dream  have  departed ! 
Oh !  Dream  of  Life's  early  day,  farewell  for  ever. 


183 


As  the  pale  cloud  that  circled  in  morning  the  hill  top, 

Flitteth,  in  fleecy  wreaths,  fast  in  the  sun-blaze  ; 

Or,  as  the  slim  shadows  steal  silently  over 

The  gray  walls  at  noon-tide,  so  ghost-like  on-gliding, 

And  leave  not  a  line  for  remembrance  to  linger  on ; 

So  soon  and  so  sadly  have  terribly  perished 

The  joys  we  did  muse  of  in  youth's  mildest  morn  ; 

Time   spreads  o'er  the  brow  soon  his   pale   sheaf  of 

sorrow, 
And  freezes  each   heart-fount   that  whilome   gushed 

freely ; 
Oh  !  Dream  of  Life's  early  day,  farewell  for  ever. 

The  woods  and  the  waters,  the  great  winds  of  heaven, 
Sound  on  and  for  ever  their  grand  solemn  symphonies  ; 
The  moon  gleams  with  gladness,  —  the  wakeful  stars 

wander, 

With  bright  eyes  of  beauty,  that  ever  beam  pleasure  ;« 
The  sun  scatters  golden  fire  —  bright  rays  of  glory  — 
Till  proud  glows  the  earth,  graithed  in  harness  from 

heaven ; 

The  fields  flourish  fragrant  with  summer  flower  blos- 
soms ; 

Time  robs  not  the  earth  of  its  brightness  and  braveries, 

But  he  strips  the  lorn  heart  of  the  loves  that  it  lived  by. 

Oh !  Dream  of  Life's  early  day,  farewell  for  ever. 


184 


We  have  sought  for  the  smiles  that  shed   sunshine 

around  us, 

For  the  voices  that  mingled  mind-music  with  ours  ; 
For  hearts  whose  roots  grew  where  the  roots  of  our 

own  grew, 

While  pulse  sang  to  pulse  the  same  lay  of  love-longing. 
In  the  fair  forest  firth,  on  the  wide  waste  of  waters, 
By  brooks  that  gleam  brightest,  and  banks  that  blush 

bravest, 

On  hill  and  in  hollow,  green  holm,  and  broad  meadow, 
We  have  sought  for  these  loved  things,  but  never  could 

find  them, 
We  have  shouted  their  names,  and  sad  echoes  made 

answer. 
Oh  !  Dream  of  Life's  early  day,  farewell  for  ever. 


THE  RITTERS   RIDE  HOME. 

As  eagles  return  to  their  eyrie, 
Gorged  with  the  flesh  of  the  young  kid, 
Even  so  we  return  from  the  battle  — 
The  banquet  of  noble  blood. 
We  are  drunk  with  that  ruddy  wine  ; 
We  are  stained  with  its  droppings  all  over ; 
We  have  drunk  till  our  full  veins  are  bursting, 
Till  the  vessel  was  drained  to  its  dregs  — 
Till  the  tall  flaggons  fell  from  our  hands, 
That  were  wearied  with  ever  uplifting  them  : 
We  have  drank  till  we  no  longer  could  find 
The  liquor  divine  of  heroes. 

The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

Ask  where  great  glory  is  won  ? 
Enquire  of  the  desolate  land  ; 
Of  the  city  that  hath  no  life, 
Of  the  bay  that  hath  no  white  sail, 
The  land  that  is  trenched  with  mad  feet, 
13 


186 


Which  turned  up  the  soil  in  despair ; 
The  city  is  silent  and  fireless, 
And  each  threshold  is  crowded  with  dry  bones ; 
The  bay  glitters  sheenly  in  sunlight, 
No  oar  shivers  now  its  clear  mirror  ; 
The  mast  of  the  bark  is  not  there, 
Nor  the  shout  of  the  mariner  bold. 
But  the  sea-maidens  know  of  strange  men, 
Beclasped  in  strong  plaits  of  iron  : 
They  know  of  the  pale-faced  and  silent, 
Who  sleep  underneath  the  waves, 
And  never  shall  waken  again 
To  stride  o'er  the  beautiful  dales, 
The  green  and  the  flower-studded  land. 
The  Hitters  ride  home  ! 

We  have  come  from  the  strife  of  shields ; 
From  the  bristling  of  mighty  spears ; 
From  the  smith-shop,  where  brynies  were  anvils, 
And  the  hammers  were  long  swords  and  axes. 
We  have  come  from  the  mounds  of  the  dead, 
Where  hero  forms  lay  like  hewn  forests ; 
Where  rivers  run  red  in  the  sun, 
And  the  ravens  of  heaven  were  made  glad  ! 
The  Hitters  ride  home  ! 


187 

The  small  ones  of  earth  pass  away, 
As  chaff  they  have  drifted  and  gone. 
When  the  angry  winds  rush  from  the  North, 
And  sound  their  great  trumpets  of  wrath, 
The  tempest-steeds  rush  forth  to  battle, 
They  plough  up  the  earth  in  their  course, 
They  hollow  a  grave  for  the  dead, 
As  the  share  scoops  a  bed  for  the  seed. 
The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

Beautiful !  beautiful !  beautiful ! 
Is  the  home-coming  of  the  War-faring  ; 
Of  them  who  have  swam  on  the  ocean  ; 
Of  fountains  that  spring  from  great  hearts. 
The  sunshine  of  glory's  around  them  ; 
Their  names  are  the  burthen  of  songs  ; 
Their  armour  and  banners  become 
The  richest  adornments  of  halls. 
The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

Beautiful !  beautiful !  beautiful ! 
Sounds  the  home  coming  of  the  War-faring ; 
And  their  triumph-song  echoes  for  ever 
'Mid  the  vastness  of  gloomy  Valhalla. 
The  Ritters'  last  home  ! 


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